


dazzling light, it's beckoning me

by kkochiya



Category: ATEEZ (Band), ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fuck em police, God bless them all, Gunshot Wounds, I'm so sorry Xion, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Organized Crime, Pet Names, RBW and KQ boys of course, Seonghwa is just suffering this whole time oh my god, Sexual Tension, Street Racing, Torture, but not really, youngjo is just whipped guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 21:53:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkochiya/pseuds/kkochiya
Summary: crime was never safe, but the fact everything had been pulled from beneath them, like a tablecloth slipped from underneath fine china, messily displacing what it supported, was a cold and overwhelming shockand at once they found that it all came crashing down.-in which the kq and rbw boys work their way through tragedy, learning lessons as they go along.dongju learns its okay to not be okay: to not pretend all the time.hongjoong learns to accept love even if it scares him.youngjo learns to put his foot down and say what he wants.san, yeosang, and wooyoung learn to trust a little more.-title is pinched from dazzling light by ateez(take it as you wish)
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Son Dongju | Xion, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa, Kim Youngjo | Ravn/Lee Seoho
Comments: 7
Kudos: 65





	1. to not pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god this was written in 2 days, please view it sparingly
> 
> follow me on twitter if you want to talk or just, observe;;; @/kkochiya
> 
> -
> 
> playlist!  
\- 11 (eleven) by no.1 (wanna one)  
\- workaholic by bol4  
\- treasure by ateez  
\- savage by a.c.e  
\- black and blue by a.c.e  
\- win by ateez  
\- under cover by a.c.e  
\- 9 and three quarters (run away) by txt  
\- lit by oneus  
\- feeling by unb  
\- siren by sunmi  
\- wonderland by ateez  
\- twilight by oneus  
\- utopia by ateez

Glittery eyeshadow now damp from sweat; a teasing smile on display.

His leg slides in between the other’s smoothly, applying pressure where he knows the other will enjoy it best, receiving a gutteral sound in response. He smirks, leaning over to whisper enchantingly into the man’s ear as his finger swirls sparkles into a shot glass. Sparkles that dissolve like snowflakes on a winter’s day, completely and without a trace.

Sliding the glass over, the man spends not a moment questioning the legitimacy of the concoction before downing it, drawing the other in for a sloppy kiss to which he responds pliantly, hands twirling rugged strands of hair in spirals.

Eyes sparkling, he stares up through his lashes, in a way he knows will get the other going. Gone. He’s completely gone. So the boy tip toes up, teeth grazing painfully slow over the skin of the other’s ear; the other’s breath hitches.

“Let’s get out of here.” He coaxes into the man’s ear, a thrum of something sounding from the other’s throat at the way his lips form shapes on the shell of his ear, hanging on every word like they’re magic, and blindly trusting the beauty without qualms.

He nods, almost unaware of the situation, focus entirely on how the boy’s thigh still presses against his groin, moving in circles that send his head spinning.

Guiding, a hand is slipped into the man’s grip, and they being dancing around people to leave the establishment, with the shorter throwing a sly smirk at the bouncer and a sultry wink at his companion as he sluggishly follows the boy, the fatigue draining over him evident as he drags his feet much like an exhausted child.

The man is heavy, for sure, as his legs lose stability and his weight is left to be accommodated for by the younger, who grimaces, but gets on with the task.

When they get to the van, it’s clear that he’s completely out of it.

The door slides open, and a taller boy with fading red locks hooks his arms under the man’s, dragging him in haphazardly and securing him. Meanwhile, the seducer slides into the front seat, wiping viciously at his mouth and cringing at the red lip tint and tequila that comes off of it. Never one for alcohol, he thought to himself, patting the back of his hand onto the fabric of his jeans, not really ridding of any residue.

A hand cards through his messy hair, placing the stray strands in place before he can do anything to stop it.

Shooting a glare, he hisses.

“I told you not to touch my hair-” Paused for a moment, remembering his manners, “Hyung.”

The other chuckles lightly, nose crinkling slightly as he inhales the strong scent of alcohol and smoke that lingers on the younger’s clothes.

A hand makes motions at the younger’s overall appearance, with faint traces of marks he hoped would fade within a day or two (considering the man’s sloppy attempt at creating them in the first place). Brow quirked, he asks a question that isn’t so much of a question than it is a statement.

“Got busy, hm, Xion?”

“Yeah,” He grunts, “no shit.”

Dismally, he depresses in his seat, staring out of the window as they speed off into the dark night, the sound of wind rushing past and quiet thuds in the back of the van accompanying the scenery.

It’s a pretty night.

Lights turn into blurs as they speed down roads, and the cold of the air is cooling, but not freezing: just as Xion likes it most.

It feels nostalgic in a sense: the late night drives.

He sighs and condensation builds up on the window, to which he wipes away after catching a glimpse of the older eyeing him.

Seonghwa and his impulsive cleaning habits would never get old (well maybe Seonghwa was getting old in actuality, but that wasn’t what he meant).

“He’s tied up pretty good, but I doubt he’ll be waking up soon.”

“That’s good- Thank you, Mingi.”

The red head pokes his head out into the two front seats, reaching a hand to ruffle the youngest’s hair once more, receiving a whiny growl of annoyance.

Dongju doesn't like his hair touched - not anymore - that's for sure.

“Woah, okay, beast child.”

“Seonghwa hyung, tell him to not touch my hair, please.” Xion’s glare intensifies at the fingers creeping towards his freshly dyed locks, still sparkling from the glitter they had applied earlier, “Before I bite."

To say the least, Mingi backs off, returning to the unconscious body and monitoring carefully, as if he hadn’t just crossed paths with a very angry teenager.

The late night drive continues in silence, just the way Xion wants it.

-

They arrive within the hour, loading up the van around the back and taking the elevator down with the unconscious body. Mingi is the one who holds him up right, but begrudgingly so.

With a ding, the elevator arrives at the second basement level and they’re off, Mingi depositing the man- cargo- whatever he could be called in this case - in one of the interrogation rooms, as Seonghwa wastes not a second in leading Xion to the briefing room.

In a heartbeat of sitting down, Mingi is back and they begin, Seonghwa’s hands swiping swiftly at a page of parchment with a pen as they begin to discuss the happenings of the mission. Xion describes in detail, despite his distaste in the topic, as Mingi smirks knowingly.

Xion regrets not biting him when he had the chance.

“So you kissed him, and this was before or after drugging him?”

“Just after.”

“I see.”

Seonghwa scribbles fiercely for a moment before resuming.

“No one noticed his state, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And, any sexual contact to note?”

Xion shuffles uncomfortably, casting a look at the boy before him, reciprocated with a tilt of the head, enquiring. That look: he hated it.

“Is it not my job to border the line of sexual contact with these people?”

“I didn’t question that, I just need details,” With a frown, he continues, “Hongjoong is very precise with these.”

He sighs, coming out more of a grumble than anything.

“Then, no. Just teasing.”

Mingi snickers and they both turn their heads towards him. He pulls his lips into a thin line, composing himself, even though they all know he’s doubled over laughing in that brain of his.

“That concludes this debriefing, in that case.”

Standing up, they all bow to each other, simply as a courtesy, with Mingi and Xion awaiting the order to leave.

“Dongju.” Seonghwa’s voice is in that motherly tone again, and the boy winces.

“You did well today,” He bites his lip, eyes flashing with conflict, before moving on, “Mingi too.”

He sounded like he wished to continue that sentence rather than cut it off, but despite the words going unspoken, Xion - Dongju - heard them loud and clear.

How could he not? It was always on the tips of everyone’s tongues as they walked on eggshells around him: like he was a bomb, made to ultimately explode.

Noticing the room waiting for him, and with lips pulled to a tight lipped smile, he nodded, leaving the room in haste as Seonghwa waved them off.

Debriefings truly sucked.

Fisting at his his sleeves quietly, he paced swiftly to his quarters, not so much as nodding at those who he stormed past.

The place wherein Dongju, alongside Mingi, Seonghwa and everyone else lived in and worked in was the KQ Enterprises office building itself, but not the public area. Of course not. For, behind the pristine glass walls and automatic doors, office cubicles, staff rooms - behind it all - was an entire new world: RBW.

Two units, one world. Composed of a group of elites from KQ and RBW respectively, alongside many that worked to maintain the integrity of the hidden building, this area was a hotspot of crime in the making. Whilst office workers continued in the mundanity of their lives, just behind a set of concrete walls lay another world.

Another world that Dongju found himself a part of in a twist of events.

It’s not that he had never been here before the “incident”. Of course not, he was a regular visitor. However, now, more than ever, he was needed, and rather than turning down the call for help and sulking in his misery, he thrust himself head first into the world; falling until he became accustomed to the rush of wind upon his descent: until it became his world too.

Here, everyone had a role; Dongju included.

His consisted of manipulation and stealth. Pickpocketing, seducing, intel gathering: you name it. If he needed to play the role of an aristocrat, then for the day he was luxurious and cocky, adorned with the outfit for the role and equipped with a strong mentality that he was who he pretended to be, at least for the moment.

If he wasn’t the best, then he cut pretty close to it.

Still, the seduction part of the job needed some adjusting to: having old men shove their tongues down your throat as you loot them for all of their bodily possessions certainly wasn’t a fun experience.

But he would never trade his lifestyle for a simpler one. Never.

Perhaps he would change some things but never would he abandon this.

KQ and RBW gave him everything, even when all felt lost.

-

Dongju sits perched upon his brother’s lap, eyes wild and shaking as he hears the piercing sound of gunshots and the whistle of bullets flying. He’s blind to it all, hidden under a blanket of protection in the form of his brother’s embrace - since when did he need so much protecting?

A hand slots itself into his locks, fingers curling strands and Dongju melts into the touch.

It feels safe. But he's not.

Last thing he had known was that they were in trouble, Dongmyeong having had gotten involved with the wrong kind of people and throwing his brother into the line of danger unintentionally.

That was never his intention - to get Dongju involved - but as fate would have it, keeping a sibling hidden could only be done for a moment in time, and now that they knew, these people were out for blood, and blood they would get.

At least, after they got past Dongmyeong that is.

But it never did reach that point.

Yes, Dongmyeong would die for his younger twin, but it was the fact that it never even had to happen that Dongju became thankful for.

Dongju never thought of them as saviours - no, that was far too embarrassing - but rather looked up to the smiling man before him, curling his fingers into his bloodied ones despite the vicious commands from his brother to not do so, and decided they were the miracle he had been hoping for.

From that day on, Dongmyeong joined RBW and so did Dongju, as Xion, and despite being told countless times to stay away from their lifestyle, Dongju indulged countless times in the thrill of crime, knowing now it was all different; finally they had control over fate.

It was all so bright.

Until it wasn’t.

Why did misery catch up so quickly? He would ponder.

Dongju hated fate: no matter how much it gave him, it always had to take.

-

Dongju threw his body onto the single bed, squeezing at the sheets as his eyes tried to viciously erase the events of the day.

His neck stung, despite the lack of injury.

Just the thought of the marks left behind made it uncomfortable.

If sleep fixed all problems, he would fall into an endless coma to repair all the damages of the world. But sleep was just a recovery for the body, and Dongju was perfectly fine - physically that is.

Nevertheless, feeling rested was a relief and so he indulged in the softness of his pillow and allowed his eyes to droop, taking him to a land of hazy dreams where he didn’t need to pretend, and could just be still; happy.

-

Seonghwa bounced his knee nervously, having received word of the soon arriving unit, fresh from their extermination mission. Having had just come back from his own with Dongju and Mingi, the boy hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, but the overwhelming feeling of worry would overcome any fatigue.

A single knock sounded at his door and Seonghwa launched up, swinging the door open and hearing it slowly close shut with a click as he made a beeline towards the briefing room.

“They already arrived?”

A sleepy Yeosang called out from his quarters, hearing the rapid click of Seonghwa’s shoes.

“Yes, just now.”

“Mm.”

Seonghwa was off once more, pausing at the doors to the room as he arrived, composing himself, before pushing at the wood and promptly making his way to his seat, eyes gazing over the five men on the journey.

Already seated, sat San, coated in blood that Seonghwa really hoped wasn’t his own; Wooyoung, with small cuts littering his cheeks alongside blossoming bruises; Seoho, with blood dripping from the side of his mouth, wiped away as soon as Seonghwa laid eyes on it; Leedo, surprisingly perfect; and Yunho, with a ridiculous plaster (it had been Hello Kitty, pink and with glitter: Seonghwa suspected Wooyoung to have given it to him, because quite frankly, it was a very Wooyoung thing to do) on his eyebrow, concealing a cut slightly too big to be hidden completely.

At least they were all alive and non-fatally hurt.

(He eyed Seoho at the thought, hoping to not have to take it back)

Seonghwa seated himself, parchment and pen in hand as he began his questions.

-

“So, what you’re telling me is that they used explosives and you just ran past them? And that explains why you had metal pulled out of your eyebrow, hence the... plaster.”

“That is exactly what I just told you.”

Seonghwa breathes in. Breathes out. Looks up at the ceiling, then at Yunho with an indescribable expression that scares the boy in question.

He's breathing in and out as quietly as he can muster, counting the breaths in his head as he tries to tear his mind away from what his hand aches to write. But it's utter disbelief and concern that washes over him, and he's feeling the words bubble up in his throat; they beg to overflow, and spill senselessly with vivid emotion.

Seonghwa just can't figure out why on earth the boy had just-

It's coming up again.

Do not explode, do not explode, do not-

“Fucking idiot.”

The room stilled, heads bowed instantaneously.

Seonghwa continues scribbling at the page, brows creased as he applies pressure to the page: the anger seeping through much like the ink bleeds through his paper, and he knows how showing it is; hopes the others take it as a warning. But it’s a wonder his pen hasn’t snapped in two, considering how ferociously-

It does, and Seonghwa merely pulls out a replacement, wiping the splattered ink on a handkerchief like it's a slight inconvenience (which it is, but his frustration is not).

Heart already strained, he presses on, because he knows he has to: he has an image to keep up, anyways.

“Wooyoung is battered because…?”

Eyes turn to the silver haired boy, urging him to speak up. He huffs, eyes darkening, and fingers twiddling nervously in a child-like manner, like he's been caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. Except this situation isn't sweet or childish in any way, and Seonghwa's worry increases with every passing moment that he anticipates the worst.

“Just a slip up, San shot the guy anyways.”

Mumbles. He's reluctant.

But the burning gaze Seonghwa has on him prompts more words as he feels the need to qualify what he's said.

“We had it under control.”

“Slip ups end in deaths, Jung Wooyoung.”

Cold; formal. It's frightening how his tone doesn't waver, not even a little. It feels like a vice grip is on Wooyoung's neck at the sound of it, and shivers trail down his back in a quick succession.

Any more words die in his throat and he resorts to a soundlessly dejected nod.

This happenstance in the mission is recorded by Seonghwa, his patience wearing thin as the minutes pass.

“Lastly, Seoho.”

Leisurely he turns his focus to Seonghwa, shooting a small smile at the younger as a de-escalator, hoping for it to work as he notices the frown Seonghwa shoots at his lips far too often. The blood at his mouth has begun dripping again and he discreetly wipes at it, as if its a mere nosebleed and not an injury that needs attention.

That’s going to require medical treatment, Seonghwa acknowledges.

“Explain.”

“It’s not serious.”

“Did I ask?”

Seoho laughs dimly. Coughing quietly as he does so, with Seonghwa’s gaze boring holes into his forehead: more out of worry than anything else. It didn't stop Seoho's heart from hammering painfully in his chest with guilt, prompting the dull ache more than anything.

“Rammed in the neck and mouth with a gun. You trust I’m fine, right?”

The younger of the two scoffs, and Seoho just sends him another one of those saccharine sweet smiles, hoping to ease some of the stress that Seonghwa's face has contorted to show so clearly. It never managed to scare him when the boy gave off that cruelly cold tone, or when he voiced his disapproval. If anything, it made him feel that sense of guilt creep up behind him as it always did, knowing how he caused it more often than others did, but did nothing to stop it.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

Five heads shake slowly and Seonghwa weakly motions for them to leave, gaze wavering as they file out, and the door clicks shut behind them. Pressing his head against the table, he lets out shaky breaths and tries to control his tremours, reminding himself that it was silly, and that he didn't even need to feel this way.

But it was so difficult.

Truthfully, it was hard to hide concern when you felt it so strongly.

Recently, everything had become so much more dangerous: people becoming more sneaky; more tactful when it came to crime. Police had tightened their control, and every move was monitored.

Seonghwa dreaded the thought of anything happening, even worried himself senseless when the kids came back with so much as a cut.

When had it gotten so serious?

-

Staring at the series of letters on his paper, he sighs, signing off at the bottom and slotting it into a folder to be delivered to Youngjo and then Hongjoong. Up the chain of command: that was usually how it went.

He pauses once more, staring at the folder with no particular thoughts in his mind, before pulling himself up from the chair. Deflatedly, he made his way to the elevator - through a series of hallways that admittedly were uselessly complicated - before taking it to one of the higher floors and stepping off, glad to be away from the possibly deadly contraption.

Maneuvering his way through corridors until he landed in front of one in particular, he typed in a code that he could recite in his sleep, having memorised it long ago, and making sure to keep up with its changes. With the final push of a button, steel slid apart and the interior of the room had been revealed.

It was a glassy office, probably being used for more legitimate purposes long ago, considering all of the unnecessary space and the striking view of great goliaths of skyscrapers. From up here, everything on the ground looked like ants, and Seonghwa despised it: hence why he never took the opportunity to get so much as two meters close to the dreaded glass panes.

A familiar face smiled endearingly at him, eyes bright at his unprompted appearance, with a livliness to them that Seonghwa soaked in.

“Done for the day?”

Seonghwa slowly allowed a scowl to overwhelm his features at the words, knowing he was nearing the end of the work day, but still not having had recovered from the tiredness it had brought upon him.

“Those kids are going to give me a heart attack one day," He curses, "bloody idiots.”

Youngjo grins in a charming manner, waving him over to the desk and making space in his seat for the boy to share despite the chair quite obviously not being built for two (and its something Seonghwa supposes is somewhat suggestive but doesn’t deny - he finds that it actually makes looking over reports much easier).

“They’re just trying to do a good job, you know-”

“Good job at getting themselves killed! Don’t they know how precious they are? Especially after…”

The older’s lips pull to a pout, hands caressing the boy's cheek with such delicacy that it's almost ridiculous (but it's not as though it's at all on Seonghwa's mind), meaning it to server as a means of comfort before beginning wiping away his tightly pinched brows, smoothing down the wrinkled skin with the pads of his fingers.

He speaks firmly: something not often observed.

“Dongmyeong wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t make it any better.”

They sit in a sullen silence for a moment, the two soundlessly making the shared decision of taking to looking at Seonghwa’s briefing reports with Youngjo marking off where it needed to be, and Seonghwa observing quietly, disallowing himself so much as a fidget, as the words he scribbled restlessly came into his sight.

Seonghwa was tired. And he had been for a while, even before Dongmyeong.

He had been tired the first mission he sent anyone on, waiting impatiently for their return even though he knew pacing and worrying wouldn’t ensure their safety in any way.

He had been tired the first day he met Hongjoong and Ravn (who he now addressed as Youngjo); Had been tired the moment they introduced themselves, told him their respective ages - Hongjoong only seventeen and Youngjo twenty.

Too young, he had thought, casting aside his own situation and the fact that he too, was “too young”.

He had been tired when he first met Jongho: the boy 15 at the time, and more mature than many of the men Seonghwa had the misfortune to come across. Coming from a broken home, taken into KQ after fending himself off from some of the former KQ members.

Seonghwa was tired of it all.

Completely exhausted.

Sickly stressed.

Youngjo brought him back with a firm kiss, pressed smoothly on the crown of his head as he placed the paperwork down.

Turning to face the boy, he stroked his cheek, drawing eyes to his own almost immediately. Seonghwa understood all of the other's touches, and recognised them quicker than anything else. It was their silent language. Youngjo took to examining the boy's growing eyebags and frowned, watching as emotion flashed through brown eyes at the proximity and noticing nervousness the longer looks were shared.

“Are you worried for Xion?”

A weak laugh croaked out of his throat.

“I think he copes better than me, to be honest-” Seonghwa’s heart squeezes, “copes better with his own twin’s death than me.”

“But are you worried?”

“Of course, I worry for them all.”

Youngjo thinks the boy before him is possibly the most good-willed person he’s met aside from Hongjoong, and treasures that. He treasures Seonghwa, because he knows how much he deserves it, and also because if he was to hold anyone dear to his heart, it would be him.

(And if he lets himself worry for the boy just as much as he knows Seonghwa worries for everyone else, then he doesn’t let said boy know.)

“You should worry for yourself sometimes.”

“Coming from you.”

Youngjo laughs and soon Seonghwa is laughing too, nose crinkled the way Youngjo likes it; even finds it endearing.

Seonghwa hops off of the seat and swipes the reports off the desk, mock-saluting Youngjo as he departs.

Youngjo watches him go with an absolute look of admiration, smile straining his cheeks. Of all the things in his life, Seonghwa is possibly his favourite (besides his baby Sunny, that is, but Seonghwa cuts pretty close).

-

Next stop on Seonghwa’s journey: Hongjoong.

He hums to himself as he ambles down the corridor, slightly cheered up from the stop he had made (which is lucky, considering how Hongjoong gets when he notices Seonghwa’s misery).

Punching in yet another set of numbers that he doesn't even need to ponder the sequence of for a moment, he watches the door slide open: another set of steel opening before his eyes. Walking in with reports hanging by his thighs in a loose grip, he glances around, and feels the smile tug at his lips when he finds the boy head down, focused on what Seonghwa assumes to be drawings. It's not long before Hongjoong looks up from his work, sliding it into a draw as Seonghwa approaches, smile already prettily composed on his lips to welcome him.

Seonghwa’s heart skips, as it always does, but he fends off the feeling blossoming in his chest.

“How is my favourite person doing?”

“I think Youngjo would riot if he heard you say that.”

“Well, I don’t see him here, do you?”

Seonghwa grins, dropping the paperwork onto the other’s desk and leaning over, meeting eyes with the dirty blond (which he does in an endeavour to admire, rather than intimidate).

“Why-” He clears his throat quickly ridding of the blatant fragility, “Why are you looking at me like that?” Hongjoong speaks quickly and with a hint of nervousness, shifting his eyes to the paperwork and reading through its contents to avoid direct eye contact. It amuses Seonghwa: the way he's so worked up.

A hum, “I needed to get some sunlight in my life.”

“Park Seonghwa.” He huffs, pink dusted on his cheeks, eyes skimming through words.

Seonghwa thinks it's cute. 

Taking his place in a seat opposite Hongjoong, he leans back, awaiting either a cry of outrage at the reports or a hum of approval - whether or not Hongjoong felt sentimental was the decider of the outcome (but a big part of him wanted outrage, so that he could spill his frustrations from the day; the other part wished the leader to relax and skim over such worrisome things).

Flicking of pages sounded through the room.

“Wooyoung gave Yunho a Hello Kitty plaster for his shrapnel wound?”

Amusement is clear in the tone of his voice.

“It wasn’t confirmed to be Wooyoung but do you really think Gunhak carries Hello Kitty stickers on his person?”

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows with a smirk.

“Are you implying he has them but not on his person?”

“Well… Considering everything.”

Laughter bubbles up and they’re giggling like teenagers; carefree, with a particular loudness to the sounds that vibrate through their throats.

Seonghwa decides he misses how Hongjoong laughs when he’s happy - doesn’t even notice how he, himself, stops laughing to ponder this.

-

Hongjoong and Seonghwa, just seventeen, had to rebuild the integrity of KQ and RBW, considering the sudden merging and how everything had gone off its hilt. New management was being established and whilst recruits were being dealt with, a system of hierarchy had to be formed; otherwise, how would anyone respect their leaders?

But they were just teenagers, still naive, and even with the help of Youngjo (who, only just a young adult, tried his best to guide the teens) still made mistakes.

Despite how much trouble they faced from slip ups, how much hate they may have unintentionally gained from examples made, Hongjoong still kept his stupidly attractive laugh that Seonghwa could bask in endlessly, and often did. It was a reliever: to laugh like everything wasn't a mess, and everything was in order.

As the years dragged on, however, it became increasingly hard to be happy with how everything went (and even if he was happy, who fears a joyful child? Those cheerful habits had to die).

Slowly, the smile left Hongjoong’s face and worry filled Seonghwa slowly, like water filling a tub until it reached its brink, and the worries - water - began spilling.

That was how life went, for them at least.

Seonghwa worried for his fellow members; worried for Youngjo who suffered greatly, as they all had; worried for Hongjoong and the burden on his shoulders; worried about close runs with the police, if the entire thing could come crashing down like a wave.

Worried about losing his family again.

Losing it all.

He missed being naive and seventeen.

-

With a swift sign at the bottom of the reports, Hongjoong is done, and Seonghwa finds himself leaving quietly, relinquishing the reports to the leader as he always does at the end of these sessions.

He’s at the door, fingers brushing against buttons, pausing in his movements as he hears it from behind him.

“Seonghwa.”

Hongjoong whispers the name like it’s fragile.

“Yes?”

He had turned around, meeting eyes with the other’s warm ones.

The air is thick and they both know it. Seonghwa feels the pain of emotion bubbling up in his chest, tightening his throat and prickling his eyes. He wants to look away from Hongjoong’s immediate gaze but knows how showing he already is; how showing he always is when it comes to the boy before him

A sigh sounds as Hongjoong scrambles for the right words.

“Don’t... don't worry so much about me.”

Seonghwa furrows his brows, feigning ignorance, and Hongjoong gives him a knowing look.

He leaves without another word spoken.

-

Weeks pass, with small missions taking place but none of great significance. No one gets hurt and Seonghwa feels like he can breathe again for a while.

That is until the dreaded phone call from their rat.

(A name she personally hates but, then again, what else is one to call it?)

Intel is given to Seonghwa of a rogue group of police that has been tracking those under KQ, and a mission plan is swiftly drawn up, using the information.

A banquet is being held - a fancy one, to say the least - and a prime member (suspected to be the leader) will be present. This situation is ideal, considering a police officer cannot do something illegal in public eye, ensuring the safety of those on the mission (and Seonghwa lives for safety).

Generally, Seonghwa avoids missions involving police in fear of someone being caught rather than someone spilling information. He knows everyone’s loyalties well enough, but busting a member out of prison endangers the whole group, and Seonghwa simply cannot risk it, nor can Hongjoong, or Youngjo, who he knows would be equally as reluctant.

But this is confirmed to be safe. Seonghwa makes sure of it.

So he sends his best.

Xion, Hwanwoong and Yeosang are called to the briefing room.

Their eyes are unreadable after being told of the situation, and understandably so.

“So, are we all comfortable with the plan?”

Slow nods.

“Then, Dongju, what will you do?”

“Se-” He felt wrong saying it but swallowed down this thought quickly, like it was wrong to feel embarrassed, because this was his job, after all, “Seduce him. Yeosang will get a drink for us. I have to steal his phone.”

“Yeosang, what will you do?”

“Put the powder in the drink, drop the drink meant for him and get Xi-” he glances at the boy before correcting his words, “Dongju to give his drink to him.”

“Good. Hwanwoong, what will you be doing whilst this happens?”

“Watch from afar, make sure everything is okay, and kill discreetly if anyone seems to find out about us.”

Seonghwa seems satisfied with the response, dismissing them to get ready for the mission and preparing drafts of the paperwork he’ll need once they’re done, cursing the fact he hadn’t managed to do it earlier.

Just more writing to do, he thinks to himself hopelessly.

-

Missions like these involved elaborate looks, and luckily enough, those who usually were sent out for the missions like these knew how to best disguise themselves (and if there was any hesitation, Hongjoong would be more than willing to aid - he was always a stylish boy).

Dongju steps out, suit adorned with a family crest embroidered into his handkerchief. Seonghwa winces, eyes catching sight of it and immediately summoning the thought of a family left behind. It aches dully, and Seonghwa forgets how he ever managed to deal with it.

Quickly, he moves his mind elsewhere, admiring the handiwork of the members.

Yeosang is equally as well dressed, earrings adorned (which Seonghwa notes to himself as suiting him incredibly well, making an already attractive Yeosang even more alluring).

Hwanwoong has a slightly less extravagant outfit, so as to blend in rather than stand out, but it’s still luxurious, and if he looked attractive before, he was to die for in this outfit.

Guns are concealed under Hwanwoong’s clothing, whereas Xion is going weaponless, and Yeosang is only equipped with an earpiece to contact Hwanwoong if need be (which he probably will end up doing anyways, just to tease the boy).

Xion begins to mentally prepare himself, composing his thoughts and playing through endless situations as he always does. It's much like improvisation acting, and Dongju is no stranger to acting. So, he readies himself for anything that is to come-

That is, before Gunhak finds his way to the group getting ready, quietly whispering to Hwanwoong to enquire the purpose of the mission. He glances at Dongju countless times as he talks, eyes lingers where they probably shouldn't, and lips curling in ways Xion doesn't bother trying to comprehend.

But its those eyes fixed. Staring. Of course, he hated it normally, but the other rubbed him the wrong way, and the anger that bubbled up came as no surprise to either of them.

“What are you looking at, asshole?”

Gunhak scoffs and Hwanwoong smirks. Dongju thinks in that moment that Hwanwoong is the biggest bitch he’s ever laid eyes upon, but soon takes in back in favour of directing his stream of hate towards the boy he’s just called out, knowing he's going to hold a grudge against the shorter of the two anyways.

“Whoring yourself out again?”

“It’s not whoring," He speaks deliberately, "it’s pickpocketing strategically. Get it through your skull, knucklehead.”

Gunhak can practically see the venom dripping from the younger’s tongue at every syllable.

“Jeez, Dongju, I was joking, calm down.”

Gunhak attempts an approach towards the younger, hands up to display innocence (which Dongju doesn’t trust at all); The pointed glare doesn’t cease, and if looks could kill, Gunhak would be dead where he stood, without a moment's hesitation.

“Touch me and I’ll bite your fingers clean off.”

Seonghwa watches from afar in disappointment, a face of distress painted tragically on his features; Yeosang sympathises with him by his side, even though he knows he's somewhat excitedly anticipating the outcome of events.

Gunhak definitely doesn’t heed the younger’s warning, and grabs him by the arm roughly, which is understandably an act of instigation from an outside view but perhaps something more intimate between the two. Dongju stares down to evade eye contact (and also because he feels incredibly small, and hates it in its entirety).

Their voices are low, as if sharing a secret: but it's evident that there is no secret, and Dongju almost doesn’t understand why the atmosphere has suddenly shifted, and he’s finding that he’s no longer so powerful; that there's been a power shift, and he's suddenly crushed with the realisation.

“Be careful, okay?"

His voice is delicate, like Dongju would break otherwise.

"If he touches you, you bite.”

Dongju hates how his heart sings.

“Yeah,” There’s something clouding his voice, weighing it down, “I’m not stupid.”

-

Seonghwa splits the two apart after that, probably assuming fighting would break out, and also to usher the three to head out for the mission: the banquet was starting soon and whilst arriving fashionably late was regularly a good idea, missing the entire thing was not (and also losing a prime opportunity to get at some key information was definitely not ideal).

The regular form of transportation was used: a normal van, not too easy to remember or distinguish. No one was supposed to see them arrive or leave, meaning it’s mundanity meant nothing at such an event: no flashy cars required.

Hwanwoong as the eldest, drove, with Yeosang complaining about his driving skills as Dongju’s head bumped against the window countless times with sharp smacks of skull against glass. But regardless, they arrived in one piece (although, Yeosang would love to beg to differ).

Arriving, invites had to be shown, which they were arranged to have before leaving, Seonghwa dilligent in the preparation process as usual. Thus, entering was possibly proving to be the easiest part of the night.

Fortunately, the target was very recognisable: his blonde hair standing out as well as his suit (which Yeosang, honest to God, found atrocious, but they were here to drug the man not question his (terrible, very terrible) fashion sense).

Xion got to work with striking conversation, conscious of how quickly the man became handsy, his hand weighing heavily on his waist; the touch burning unpleasantly, searing soft skin.

As per the plan, Yeosang very convincingly bumped into Xion, to which they pretended to be friends just meeting at the party, and skillfully the younger worked the other into the conversation, watching how the man gazed at Yeosang with almost as much vigour as he had with him. A fire burnt behind his eyes, one that burnt violently and without care.

He found it foul, and wished the man to direct his gaze solely on him, rather than sending them both such disgusting looks.

If Yeosang minded, he surely didn’t show it, and proceeded with the plan smoothly.

“Shall we get drinks, hm?”

The man hesitated for a moment before declining politely, leading Xion to discreetly shift his eyes to Yeosang who only bit his lip, pretending to be unaffected in such a way, and only pouty out of teasing.

If the thing they based their plan around had gone out of the window, what more could they do? Seonghwa never mentioned a plan B, and Xion wasn’t one to give up what he started without finishing. Plus, if all worked out, he was sure they could weave some lies (what Seonghwa didn't know couldn't hurt him, was his impeccable reasoning).

Thus, with a gentle sigh, Xion broke from the plan.

He could practically hear Seonghwa screaming in protest right now, like an angel on his shoulder trying to swerve him into the right path.

Xion chose to ignore it.

“I’ll get myself a drink, in that case, could you wait with my friend?” He slid his hands over the man’s chest for affect, feeling how his heart raced at the act and deciding it had worked.

Dazed, he nodded and off Xion was, glancing back at Yeosang as worry gathered in his chest, begging to burst out in a flurry of panic.

Quickly, he tapped powder into a cup of champagne: watching it shimmer and swirl into bubbly liquid, then melt away effortlessly. Returning, he slickly sidled into the man’s side and smiled up innocently, that through the lash look proving fatal for the countless times he had used it.

Taking a quick swig of the liquid, he raised a brow suggestively, to which he knew, from the sudden glazing over of the man’s eyes, he had him gone; head over heels, mind entirely consumed with emotion.

Another mouthful of champagne, and he pulled the man forward for a kiss, opening his mouth and allowing saliva to mix with alcohol in a mess that should have been disgusting to both parties but only seemed distasteful to one. Xion internally cringed at the dribble of spit infused champagne down his chin, making sure to wipe at it slyly as they broke apart.

Yeosang watched from the side, heart dropping at the plan the younger had thought up (or rather hadn’t thought of whatsoever, with how stupid it was).

Why would he drug himself too? How would they get him out of the party without anyone noticing? Questions bubbled up quickly through his mind and he only noticed the two rushing off when they were almost disappearing down a corridor.

He was sure he’d age a year or two after this ordeal, wrinkles already presenting themself on his once youthful skin.

(This is how Seonghwa feels, he mused to himself, trying to still his palpitations.)

-

It happened in slow motion, almost. And Xion wished for it to be way faster as it dragged out.

Xion felt the taller push him against a wall in the middle of a dimly lit corridor, mouth attached to his instantaneously with a sense of urgency. A tongue made its way past his lips and he tried his best to appease the other, swirling his own tongue in the other’s mouth (which he noted to have a strong taste of smoke) before pulling away and running his hand through the man’s hair.

Lips attached to his neck and he whined, eyes betraying him as they widened in alarm, hating how the sound had been yanked from his vocal cords. The man took this as a signal to continue and as smoothly as possible, he pulled the man to face him, teasing smile on his lips, batting lashes (even though internally he cursed the blooming bruise the man had made on his neck).

“Shall I call my friend?” A flash of hesitation ran through his eyes, and Xion froze.

That wasn’t good.

So, he continued, voice laced thickly with something he thought sounded like lust, “It’s more fun with three, don’t you think?”

And at once, the ravenously greedy hunger returned and Xion found himself pecking the man’s alcohol stained lips before running off to find Yeosang who he found to be fortunately close by.

“I told him I’m bringing you, if we both distract him, it’s easier for him to forget he’s feeling tired." Dongju tries to explain briefly, glancing over his shoulder often, "Plus, I really don’t want to lose my virginity to some old policeman in a rich man's gala.”

Yeosang nodded slowly, not entirely convinced by the plan but agreeing nonetheless. They were this far anyways, it just couldn’t get worse.

Trailing behind Xion, he watched the boy hurry back, disappearing into the corridor once more.

This plan was stupid, and he knew it. What good would come from trying to sex up some man and pickpocket him in the process? Wasn’t Dongju good at pickpocketing regardless? Why was it harder this time?

When he managed to catch a glimpse into the corridor, Xion was on the floor, a gash on his temple, with three men around him, two armed.

Heart pounding, blood rushing became the only thing he heard through his ears. Yeosang had never felt so much concentrated fear, even when held at gunpoint. Because this was so much worse (hauntingly, the “it couldn’t get worse” from earlier echoed in his mind, and he felt the need to hit something).

“Fuck. This is so fucked.” Whispering to himself, he tuned into his earpiece, hands shaking and vision slowly blurring with burning tears as he cleared his throat to relay the message.

“Woong, we’ve been caught. Dongju was captured, I repeat, Dongju was captured. Tell the others immediately. I- I need to go with him.”

“Wait- Yeosang, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? You can’t just break from the plan like this.”

They were both panicked, and it showed with how they spoke: voices shaking like flimsy paper in strong winter wind (absolutely vulnerable).

“He can’t be alone, and I need to leave now that they’re expecting me. I’m destroying the earpiece now, so please,” He breathed heavily, “go get help.”

With that, Yeosang cast the small device to the floor, crushing it under his heel until it became a mess of circuits that he assumed would be unsalvageable. Evidence needed to be destroyed.

Slowly, he walked into the corridor, feigning innocence when he noticed the three men and Xion.

Pupils shaking, his hands raised, he took a step back, only half pretending in this little show he put on.

“I- I’m sorry, I must have walked in on the wrong thi-”

A gun was pointed at him and before he knew it someone was ramming the back of their gun into his temple, and everything delved into endless darkness.

-

“What the fuck do you mean by “captured”, Yeo Hwanwoong?”

“I mean, they fucking found out who they were and captured them, what fucking else would it be- I mean, fuck, Seonghwa, I’m trying not to blow my top but they just took Yeo and Dongju, and honest to God I have no idea how, Yeo just cut on me.”

Breathing becomes heavy on the other line. Hwanwoong waits for a reply.

“Understood. Return safely.”

Hwanwoong is more scared at the sudden calm: more so than when Seonghwa sounded angry.

-

Everyone is in a flurry of confusion, with Seonghwa having had called everyone to the briefing room (he had been glad that the room was obnoxiously big with such a huge table, because fitting twelve people in a small room would’ve been hell otherwise).

Hwanwoong arrived just as the last person piled in, and Seonghwa sat down, signalling for everyone else to follow suit. Hongjoong and Youngjo sat on either side of him, and if it helped him keep his voice level, then he wouldn't mention it.

“We have an emergency.”

No one dared to speak out.

Until someone did.

“Is it about Dongju and Yeosang? Why aren’t they present?”

Seonghwa bit his lip at Seoho’s questions, feeling the tension in the room grow instantly at the realisation that two of their members were missing. He could practically feel the words on the tip of everyone’s tongues, wishing to spill endlessly in a rush of pain and confusion. Seonghwa closed his eyes and wished it all away, but when he opened them, eleven sets of eyes still remained pinned on him: waiting; expecting.

“They’ve been captured by rogue police.”

Hongjoong leaned over, behind Seonghwa, to whisper to Youngjo, and it was in that moment of exclusion from their discussion that he knew everything was oh-so fucked up.

“Well, what’s the plan? Seonghwa? There’s always a plan, right?” Wooyoung questioned tirelessly, San sliding his hand over the boy’s as his knuckles grew white with the ferocity of his nails digging into the flesh of his palm.

He knew this would happen.

But it was in the moment that they desperately needed it, that Seonghwa had no plan.

Delicately, as carefully as he could without shaking, Seonghwa pressed his hands together and breathed.

Light-headed. That was how he felt; He felt light-headed.

He supposed this was how things went in a life like this, and considered himself lucky for spending five years swaddled up in blankets of safety. Thought it funny, that he could even start to think of himself lucky, considering the situation, before realising he had gone completely quiet before a room of people depending so greatly on him.

Their gazes burnt.

“Seonghwa has helped so much in gathering you all here and trying to ensure the safety of the mission, but things escape us, and it’s not his fault.” Hongjoong spoke up, expression more serious than anyone had ever seen it.

“Do not direct your anger towards him. Do not forget everything he has given for you. Understand?”

No one spoke, but the agreement was unanimous.

Seonghwa wanted to cry. Almost did, in fact; his bottom lip quivered like a leaf, and he covered it as well as he could. Youngjo slid an arm around his waist as Hongjoong proceeded, rubbing circles into his skin and mumbling encouragements which he focused his attention on as best as he could.

“Now, we can decide on a plan together, however I suggest we send a five member unit to try and locate him once we have information from our sources.” Hongjoong peered at the faces around him. “But if anyone has another plan, please speak up.”

If anyone did, they certainly didn’t voice it.

“Then it’s decided. Return to your quarters as we decide those who will go. This is not a debatable decision.”

One by one everyone piled out, leaving the three alone.

Wooyoung's eyes lingered as San pulled him along, and maybe that's what broke him.

The door clicked shut at last, and Hongjoong turned at once to the two.

“Seon-”

He was crying before Hongjoong could finish the syllable.

When they were younger, Seonghwa could cry endlessly at the smallest thing; always fragile and easily moved. He had a motherly presence to him, entirely attached to those he cared for and looked over, and endlessly emotional when it came to discussing them. But those habits, like most, dissipated.

Yet, here he sat, sobs wracking through his body as Youngjo held him close, running fingers through his locks whilst Hongjoong paced nervously.

It felt like losing a child - at least, this is what Seonghwa thought it felt like. Every single one of the members felt like a child he had to take care of, and the fact two of the youngest had-

He felt sick.

“We should send our best. In case there’s resistance, right? But is it a stealth mission? Extermination? Are we storming the place? Should I just go? I never go on missions, but it’s our members at stake, you know?”

“If you panic, your reasoning is skewed, love. Sit down, we need to wait for Seonghwa.”

Wait for Seonghwa.

He hated how this had worked out.

Hated the sound of those words.

Quickly sniffling, he blinked his eyes, clearing his throat and shuffling from Youngjo’s grip, viciously scrubbing at his swollen eyes.

Hongjoong sat and watched him, those eyes gleaming with worry as they always had.

“It’s okay, I’m fine, we can discuss now.”

No one spoke for a moment or two, probably composing their thoughts.

Youngjo broke the silence.

“I think Keonhee and Leedo would be good. Gunhak is good with knives, and Keonhee is smart. It’s a good balance.”

“San and Seoho are good together too. But that leaves the last.”

“Wooyoung?”

Seonghwa mumbles, “He’s too attached to Yeosang. Drastic. Not safe.”

Raking through his hair, Hongjoong sighs, eyes on the ceiling as he thinks, as if he could possibly draw ideas from the patternless grey.

“Hwanwoong is good at assassination, not confrontation. Mingi doesn’t dabble in these things, Yunho is reckless, and Jongho can only handle one person at a time, we can’t risk him being overpowered.”

“Seonghwa? You’re quite good.”

“You- You want me to go on a mission to save another that went wrong because of me?”

Hongjoong looks at him with a sad look, and his gut churns at once.

“They’ll listen to you, and you usually know what’s best.”

Youngjo kisses his forehead, having noticed the panic on the younger’s face, mumbling a slurred but affectionate, “That’s why you’re our best strategist, darling.”

Hongjoong chuckles at Seonghwa’s heavily delayed reaction, feeling his spirit return and the nervousness ease. Seeing the other - possibly the most caring yet composed person - worry so feverishly after such a long time was somewhat terrifying.

Seonghwa’s face flushes, and he agrees with a solemn nod, rubbing at his eyes once more before getting ready to call upon those chosen.

There was no time to sit swaddled in his blanket anymore.

-

“Why the fuck not me? Why?”

Wooyoung was reacting badly, having stormed into the briefing room after the information had been relayed that he hadn’t been chosen for the mission.

Hongjoong and Youngjo had left reluctantly, not wanting it to seem like Seonghwa needed a shield around him to function just fine. But now that the two were gone, he had wished for them back, the boy’s voice causing a painful pounding to visit his temple.

“Wooyoung, at least sit down before you decide to throw a temper tantrum.”

“Yeosang is the closest person to me, and yet when he needs saving, you won’t allow me to be there for him? How bullshit can you get-”

“It’s a safety protocol.”

“And you’ll allow San? How fucking ridiculous. Do you even know how much they’ve-”

“Enough.” His fist slams at the table.

“At least San knows how to control his damn emotions, Wooyoung. This is the exact reason you can’t be on the mission: you’re reckless. The moment you see him, you’ll react on impulse, and, remember:” Seonghwa bites, “Slip ups cause deaths.”

Wooyoung tried his best to control his breathing, looking down at the floor. He himself knew Seonghwa was correct, hence why he didn’t continue trying to justify himself.

“Do you want people to die because you can’t keep your emotions in check, hm? Tell me.”

“No.” He grumbles.

“What was that?”

“I said.” He snarled, before composing himself, “No.”

Seonghwa smiled through his frustration.

“Then we’ve reached an understanding. Please leave us for now.”

Wooyoung leaves, slamming the door shut. Everyone remains quiet. Seoho eyes Seonghwa, gauging his emotion through his eyes and deciding to not speak up as he usually does.

“Solar and Moonbyul are currently gathering information on the whereabouts of the police, as soon as we know, someone will come to tell us and we’re off. Does everyone understand?”

Gunhak raises his hand shyly.

“Yes?”

“What happens if we... fail?”

Seonghwa pales slightly.

Indeed, what would happen if they failed?

He frowns.

“Then we try again. Whatever it takes.”

The group of members seem to be in higher spirits after this, and disperse into small chatter as they wait.

At least that worked.

He drinks in the relief that washes over him, knowing it may be the only time he’ll feel it during the mission.

Seoho maneuvers his way to Seonghwa, settling beside him which gains a couple of glances and hushed whispers. Seonghwa doesn’t have the energy or willpower to scold them, as he dissolves into the leather of his chair.

“You seem anxious.” He notes quietly.

“I am. You already know that.”

Seoho narrows his eyes, and for the first time in a while allows himself to be serious.

“You know it’s not your fault, right? We’ll get Dongju and Yeosang back safely as soon as possible.”

Seonghwa shrugged weakly.

“I shoulder the blame, considering I sent them against a threat I didn’t really know the nature of.”

Seoho stares at him. Really stares at him.

“You know, you call people stupid so often, even though you’re also pretty stupid.”

He doesn’t know why he smiles, but he does anyways, and feels lighter for the moment.

-

The information arrives and in a moments notice they’re off on a long drive, a couple cities away. Some warehouse, is the word, and even though Solar notes not to trust the information, they decide it has to be investigated regardless.

Gunhak decides to drive, with Keonhee shoving his way to the front seat, leaving San, Seonghwa and Seoho bunched up in the back.

Not even an hour into the drive, Seoho is already lulled to sleep, head tucked neatly into Seonghwa’s neck. He always was one to sleep easily.

Seonghwa envies him, racing thoughts keeping him awake: sick with worry.

-

Dongju wakes up with a sharp pulsing pain in his temple, and he’s not sure if its from the drugs or the smack to the face; deciding at once, that it's probably both.

Iron mixed with alcohol remains on his tongue, which he wishes to wash away urgently but considering the immobility of his hands, it’s safe to assume he’s been bound to the chair he sits in. Sighs leave his mouth, as he fiddles with what he recognises as iron; handcuffs.

So breaking out wasn’t an option.

Before him is a steel table, probably too heavy to move, even if his legs weren’t numb yet aching at the same time (were the effects of that damn powder really this bad?). Another two chairs had been placed on the other side of the table, most likely for use in the near future.

Aside from that, the room was a mess: blood stained the floor, no evidence of any attempt at trying to clear it away. Tools he assumed were for torture littered the room and a shudder ran down his spine. If he was to be tortured, so be it. If not, then whatever.

He paused in his thoughts.

Yeah, maybe torture wasn’t something he was quite ready to accept.

Glancing at the door, a small gap was visible, and after careful deliberation (one or two thoughts), he took his chances, and let a shout erupt noisily from his throat.

“Yeo? You there?”

Only the banging of what he assumed to be a gun against the steel door sounded, and Dongju deflated.

This situation was so terribly fucked.

His eyes trailed around the room wearily, floating around.

Be it minutes or hours, he waited, staring at every crevice and stain and mark visible in the room until he finished, looking back over them again like they were art (terrible art if anything). He waited for nothing in particular, just waited for anything to happen, as one does in such a situation.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting.

It almost came as a surprise when something did happen, and Xion stared suspiciously at the events unfolding before him.

Steel doors slammed open, with a line of guards and two men in suits following behind. He assumed this would be the interrogation session, hence the interrogation table and two chairs. It was all clear before, but it made his heart race even more now.

Guns were visibly slotted into holsters on the waists of the men, evidently there as a scare tactic: stating that they were armed without giving off a sense of desperation to display power. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. Xion just didn’t fancy having his fingernails torn laboriously from their nubs: how else would he wear nail polish again? With such ruined nails? It would be a tragedy (even though his nails were already bitten to shreds: a habit that hadn’t faded with age).

Nevertheless, the men approached, and Xion merely smirked, feigning indifference as he cast his eyes to the ceiling, resuming the unnecessary examination of the terribly scuffed interior (had they ever heard of cleaning?) to avoid anything and everything.

If this was acting, then Xion was someone like Gunhak: fearless; laughs at danger; doesn’t care, even when his life's on the line, keeping his head straight and eyes pinned on the task ahead.

It almost worked.

Almost.

A sudden slam of a fist onto metal sent a jolt of fear down the boy’s leg, which he tried his best to not show, smile still painted on: a facade he clung to desperately.

He wasn’t anything like Gunhak in reality.

But if he pretended to be, it would be okay. It’s just play pretend, he assured himself, and play pretend was his speciality.

“Anything you’d like to spill, pretty boy?”

Xion moved his head to look up at the two with a sultry look, wetting his lips deliberately slow, watching their gazes harden at the sight, staring in a non-discreet way. He smiled, speaking deliberately with over-enunciated syllables, surprised at the stability of his own voice, and the lack of breaks.

“Fuck you.”

Just like that, knuckles came crashing against his cheek, skin tearing open painfully and definitely leaving harsh bruises to form later. He had wondered why it hurt so badly, cursing lowly at the sight of brass knuckles adorned on the man’s fist.

Fuckers couldn’t just punch him normally?

Blood dribbled messily from his lips: a taste of iron distinct on his tongue, and slowly dripping down his throat. Laughter erupted from his throat as he ignored the sting in the back of his eyes and the burn of his throat.

Acting like it was all okay; Xion always acted like it was all okay.

“What’s so fucking funny, huh?”

“Hit me again, maybe you’ll figure it out.”

-

Yeosang had awoken to the slam of a door, eyes frantically scanning the scene before him as he recalled the events of the night.

A corridor was visible as the door shut slowly behind those who had entered: a woman and a man, both in smart suits, like wannabe mafia bosses. Yeosang scoffed (the suits weren’t even that impressive, somewhat tacky). But, despite seeing beyond the door, nothing became any more clearer, much to his own disappointment.

His focus shifted to those before him, jaw slack and a small grin adorned in taunting. He betrayed everything in his instinct to seriously launch at the two, before remembering his position (with the weight of metal holding his hands down) and muttering a string of curses, directed at everything, without a specific target in mind.

That in itself gained him a swift strike to the jaw, creating a loud crack. Yeosang moved the jaw painfully and slowly, deciding it wasn’t broken (which was good, because if he couldn’t speak this whole situation was really going to piss him off). A broken jaw would only add to how fucked he felt the situation had ended up, and really: it did not get worse than this. That was fact.

He found them staring. The two idiots were staring - blankly - like, well, what else, other than idiots.

“What can I help you with, darlings?”

Words tumbled seamlessly, and Yeosang almost praised himself for not stumbling over them as usual. Maybe a punch to the jaw was just what he needed to fix that flaw.

Seconds drawed out, as the two spoke nothing. It was growing boring, and Yeosang almost considered it worse than torture: just silence, being stared at like a fucking zoo animal. But maybe they found their words at last, getting down to business.

“If you’re willing to cooperate, and tell us about your little gang, we’re willing to let you and your friend go without much bodily harm.”

They spoke so smoothly, like those ladies at banks that had the patience of a saint, but with a hint of patronising that didn’t stick well with Yeosang. “Little gang” they had said. Idiots knew nothing about the operations of KQ, nevertheless RBW.

He scoffed (again), “Without much bodily harm, meaning you intend to regardless.”

“That wasn’t the point in-”

“Sorry, did I ask?”

Another strike.

Yeosang wondered when he became so masochistic, as he continued his endless taunting, the beatings raining down like hailstones in a winter storm. Skin tore messily, and Yeosang remembered how it felt to be like a ragdoll: completely useless and incapable of fending off his abusers. It was a trip down memory lane, to say the least.

If he wasn’t a bloody pulp at the end of this, he’d consider himself lucky, as he always had.

“Ever get bored of, I don’t know, punching the shit out of me?”

Strike.

Spitting out blood, he throws his head back, biting back the pain and grunting out his words.

“Now look, you police bastards might be perfectly fine on ratting out co-workers,” He meets the eye of the woman, eyes half-lidded, “but only spineless cowards betray their family.”

If Yeosang had been in this position five years ago, during the first six month period he joined KQ, he was sure he’d be spilling his guts, and probably sobbing while he did it. But years with people who never once gave you reason to hate them (give or take a few moments), years with people who have done nothing but support and care for you, gives you a sense of unbreakable loyalty.

Plus, a sensitive Yeosang had disappeared long ago. At least, in the eyes of the enemy (because Yeosang in the safety of headquarters could be a real crybaby).

All of his hostility towards KQ at first had quickly dissipated, and he would never betray them, not even over his dead body.

And so he takes the pummelling, the only emotion he allows to bubble up is anger, as he waits for the moment he can give the fuckers a taste of his own medicine.

-

Nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

Seonghwa wants to burst into his tears once more, finding nothing but empty fucking boxes - fucking cargo crates - littering the warehouse that they’ve taken half a day to travel to: no Yeosang; no Dongju; no fucking nothing.

He drives the members home, grip on the steering wheel deadly, as his knuckles turn bone-white. Everyone sits in silence, sensing the boy’s overwhelming emotion.

When he arrives at headquarters he heads straight to Hongjoong’s office before he finds himself exploding in front of everyone. If he cries, only Hongjoong witnesses it, and that’s something he’s perfectly fine with, letting himself curl into the comfort of the boy's gentle touches.

-

Everyday Gunhak wonders how Dongju is faring.

Have they hurt him?

No - that’s stupid - of course they have. Why else would they take him? To pamper him? But he wonders how bad the damage is, if he’s sat smugly with tiny scratches to show for his struggle or if he’s on his last breaths, bleeding out.

They wouldn’t just kill him, right?

Perhaps that was the plan: kill off their members one by one.

Maybe he shouldn’t care so much: his dynamic with the boy is one of violence; they hate each other - that’s their thing.

If it were him, Dongju would piss off, probably not even spend a moment thinking of him, or rather hope he would be found dead, and gush in it. Maybe even curse not being able to see him there himself: dead; lifeless; pitiful.

Because Dongju hated him, right?

And he hated Dongju.

That was their dynamic, always had been.

He wishes his heart to still as the days pass and there’s no information.

Pretending was Dongju’s job, not his.

Pretending that he didn’t care about the boy was easy, until it wasn’t. Until he actually feared losing him; feared that he wouldn’t return to continue this little game of chase.

But Dongju is strong, Gunhak assures himself. He’ll be fine.

Just wait a little longer.

-

Solar reports back with more intel, Moonbyul chiming in with specifics, having always been one to remember details. Hongjoong thanked the two profusely over the phone before promptly disconnecting, relaying the information to Seonghwa who has been worrying himself senseless since the last failure.

Upon finding out, he was back in action, summoning everyone to the briefing room with a tightness to his chest: both fear and hope.

Without a moment to waste, off they were: to a bunker south from headquarters, not particularly far considering it would take only two hours compared to the last drive.

This time, the information was more solid, with it having taken six days to get anything of substance.

Six days.

If everyone seemed slightly more tense this drive, no one dared mention it, keeping their tongues to themselves and minds focused on preparing for the worst.

-

“Hey, hey-” Voices cooed mawkishly, “Stay with us pretty boy. It’s a little boring if you’re out.”

Xion shakes his head with as much vigour as he can muster, writhing in the seat he’s been tied to for a week. Blood coats the corners of his lips, sticky from where it starts to dry. His thighs burn; feet feeling empty and incredibly light, almost like they’re not there (which he even finds himself checking, sighing in relief as he sees them both intact, attached to his body).

Everything is in pain, but from how much everything’s been hurting him recently, it feels less and less painful as it drags on.

He’s sure his eyeshadow has been smudged to hell; he’s even seen glitter come off on the knuckles of the men who frequent the room, blood sparkling on cold metal. It’s sickeningly funny, like a morbid joke. Even summons giggles, which he dryly swallows down his throat.

Beatings were one thing, but by God, they were sick people.

Could this even be called torture? Perhaps just fulfilling their own sick desires. Xion knows for sure that he hates every moment of it; tries to fight off a grimace as they trace their dirty fingers across his skin: every touch feeling like razors gliding through his skin. Their mouths try and elicit high whimpers and whines, which Xion bites back, counting to a thousand endless times to somehow block it all out.

Dongmyeong hadn’t gone through this, for sure.

At least, he hoped not.

So he doesn’t ask himself what Dongmyeong would do in this situation, knowing the boy would be equally as frightened as him in the same moment.

Although, from what was said, he had a short death: saving his partner in the process.

Xion hated him for being so selfless, hated himself for being so selfish.

But here he sits, thinking about his brother and how no matter what, he would endure to keep his family safe: to keep Xion safe.

He hears Yeosang call to him sometimes: a reminder that he’s not really alone. But it’s not often that he can reply, receiving punches to the gut when he tries to, making the words die in his throat. Yeosang knows he’s there, however, and that’s enough for the two of them.

Surprisingly, Xion’s gotten off quite easily. The other, however, is another story.

Yeosang swears his ribs are broken: breathes like a whistle in every exhale. If bruises aren't turning deep purple and blue tones, by now, it's a miracle. But Yeosang knows that it didn’t need to get this far, but acknowledges that it's his fault that it did anyways. In fact, it got worse the moment they began talking about Xion - not by name, considering that had been kept secret - and every shitty thing they had done to him.

Sometimes Yeosang pauses, wonders if they’re just lying to rile him up, to get him to break. But considering the detail they love to delve into, he allows himself to trust it, and if he was pissed off before, it's even worse when they joke about touching the poor boy.

He’ll kill them, he swears it.

-

It’s in the middle of their bi-daily sessions that Xion hears it: thudding footsteps accompanied by gunfire.

He freezes for a moment, processing the situation and trying to cling to the thought of rescue, opening his mouth to let out a shout only to have a dirty cloth shoved towards his mouth. Writhing, he kicks outwards, and albeit fruitless, it somewhat aids his thrashing, and soon he manages to get his teeth onto something smooth and cold: flesh.

Biting down harshly, he feels his teeth sink down, and unhinges his jaw to spit out the taste of fresh blood, watching the man scream in pain, cradling his limp hand like a broken piece of fine china.

A chunk of flesh is evidently torn open, ligaments showing clearly, tensing and untensing in a frenzy of pain and panic; blood gushes messily, like a miniature fountain, except with red waters.

Xion admires his handiwork for a moment before cold metal is pressed harshly against his temple, and at once, his body temperature is suddenly dropping rapidly, like a candle’s flame doused in icy water.

“Make one noise and you’re dead, pretty boy.” A man murmurs into his ear, cocking the gun to arrogantly prove his point.

Xion bites down on his lip, brows furrowed in thought as he chews at the damaged flesh, irritated a harsh red just as many other parts of his skin. As footsteps grow louder, his urgency to take action grows, and he finds himself blowing out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding, letting confidence in along with his next intake of air.

What would Dongmyeong do?

It's a thought he tries to cast away.

He clenches and unclenches his bound fists, accepting whatever comes next.

“Such a shame,” His head rolls back to smile at the man, “pretty boy quite likes being loud.”

His lips part and a strangled shriek croaks out his throat, followed by brass bashing into his skull the moment it’s sounded: vision turning black for a moment, then another, until a door is slammed open, and his eyelids begin straining to remain open to witness the next chain of events.

Gunshots sounded, with a bullet whistling past his head, meeting its target in milliseconds: the sound of metal disrupting skin sickeningly familiar. His eyes search aimlessly to see who had done the deed, only catching glimpses of feet as his head fought to remain upright, neck suddenly weak.

He hopes everyone’s been killed, even prays for it, before resuming his counting. It’s the only thing keeping him awake.

Fingers fiddle at his wrists, the clicking of locks sliding out of place and the sudden release of pressure on his skin slipping away from him as he struggles to maintain consciousness.

The familiar face of none other than Seonghwa ducked into his view, warm hands cradling his face as eyes shut heavily, accepting the warmth; his body being picked up as soon as everything became unknown to him in the realms of sleep.

Again, it was the right people who had come for him in his time of need.

-

Yeosang glanced at Dongju’s limp body, heavily relying on San to keep him up right as he looked the younger up and down, noticing bruises from things besides abrasions.

Gentle smiles were exchanged between him and Seonghwa as he led the group: Seoho cleaning the place as Gunhak held Dongju to his chest, leaning his head back for his breathing. Keonhee focuses on rigging the place with explosives, keen on leaving the place in shreds.

It was a mess. Blood coated walls, with bodies limp: holes blown straight through foreheads and coming out the other side; throats slit wide open with blood draining from them endlessly, much like fountains.

And yet, Yeosang doesn’t pity these people.

They all pile into the van: restless, but okay.

San delicately treats his wrists in the drive home, pausing at every flinch and opening his mouth for an “are you okay” which Yeosang hushes lifelessly each time, a nod of reassurance being as much as he can spare. He appreciates the care and precaution, but finds himself slowly succumbing to an exhaustion that's long overdue.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window, and cringes. Eyes bloodshot, cuts at the seams of his eyebags, blood seeping from his lips - still fresh, and hair tinted a murky red with dirt and his own blood. San forces him to tear his eyes away from the window as he watches the boy wince, fingers massaging the other's in a way that felt comforting.

If his eyes prickle with tears and turn glossy, San doesn’t let anyone know, and instead curls his fingers into Yeosang’s squeezing as delicately as possible, as though he might break otherwise.

Yeosang allows himself a glance at Gunhak who runs his fingers carefully through Dongju’s hair, twirling strands as he examines the boy’s face: bloodied but still maintaining its attractiveness despite the obvious damage.

Said boy rests, still unconscious, on the older’s lap (which Seonghwa seems to take note of, driving as smoothly as he can, even though he knows Gunhak is protecting him regardless).

The way he handles the boy, like he’s the most precious thing to him, makes Yeosang’s heart race, catching the older’s eye in his examination of the scene, and impressively not tearing his eyes away as quickly as he normally would have.

He understands how Gunhak looks at Dongju, like he’d do anything to keep him safe in his arms; understands how much Dongju needs that, and feels glad the boy has someone like that, despite how odd it seems to be him - Gunhak - in particular.

A smile is shared between the two, and Yeosang turns to lean his head into the crook of San’s neck, willing himself to sleep as fingers being to slide through his hair as well; the entire thing feeling warm, and Yeosang making sure to treasure it.

His ribs hurt but he ignores it in favour of delving into a slumber of safety and comfort.

-

Seonghwa debriefs everyone after admitting Yeosang and Dongju to their medical ward, congratulating them with a voice thick with emotion as he asks questions, scribbling them down like usual.

He does not slide the forms into his folder as the members pile out of the room, leaving it out for use when the two others awaken, and more information can be gathered.

His legs bring him to Youngjo’s office where he’s graciously accepted.

Reluctantly, he lets out tears for the nth time this week.

-

Dongju’s eyes blink away sleep, eyelashes fluttering like camera shutters for a few moments before he eases his eyelids fully open, pupils scanning his surroundings and finding them to be different.

Wires in his arm, blanket covering him. His feet ache dully, as does his head that throbs like a bitch. Wiping at his lip, he finds it comes off without blood, only stinging to which he assumes a cut remains. But since he's not bleeding, he knows he must be okay; must be somewhat safe.

He only notices the eyes pinned on him after a minute or two of examination, eyes meeting deep brown ones that quickly avert, as though caught doing something they shouldn’t be.

Blinking a few times, he convinces himself that everything is real, and the rescue hadn’t been a dream of sorts; that a sick joke hadn’t been played.

Clearing his throat, he purses his lips to speak.

“Gunhak hyung?”

Gosh, when was he respectful?

Said boy returns his gaze to the younger, mouth open but frozen, words not coming out, and he feels his own throat go dry, words unable to form in the way he wills them to.

They sit in silence, Dongju noting the hushed voices of San, Yeosang and Wooyoung in the next room over - which probably aren’t as hushed as they come out, considering the walls are fairly thick.

Gunhak looks everywhere besides Dongju as he speaks (or rather, mumbles).

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

The younger stares, waiting for something else; for him to say he’s joking and move on to the insults they’re both used to. But it never comes, and his ears scorn red as moments pass and his cue to respond slowly escapes him.

“I- Thank you.”

“I’m really glad.”

“Yeah, uh. Me too.”

Gunhak sighs, resting his hand upon Dongju’s hand in one swift movement. Dongju flinches, but Gunhak doesn’t move whatsoever, and he slowly lets himself relax under the touch.

The don’t talk for a while: the air is leaden with something neither wants to delve into, but something they probably should address anyways.

“They... they touched you, didn’t they?”

“I mean,” He motions to his appearance weakly, “I think it’s clear.”

“I meant.” Gunhak’s voice is thick with something Dongju is unfamiliar with, at least, coming from him, “Touched.”

The tone implies it all.

Dongju bites his lip and drops his head, feeling how Gunhak stares at him. All of him. Doesn’t want any pity, or anything else he’s going to hear. Maybe even feels embarrassed when he knows he shouldn't; should feel upset more than anything, but somehow isn't.

“Yeah.” Comes the reply - the only thing he can conjure up.

“Saw you bit one of them.”

“Yeah.”

He hates how his voice wavers so pathetically.

Fingers brush his locks from his eyes, and he almost swats the hand away, hand fidgeting under the other’s one for a moment before halting. His ears burn; they burn until it’s almost painful, and he wants to cry - not in front of the older, however.

Hates how small he feels.

“I don’t like that.”

“Don’t like what?” He mumbles, barely trusting his voice to let out just that.

“Don’t like that they could just-” Gunhak sighs, squeezing the boy’s hand, “Just do what they wanted with you. It’s not-”

“It’s not like I wanted it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Shut up for a minute, please.”

Dongju looks at Gunhak with his mouth agape.

He closes it, casting a glare that doesn’t correlate with how much his heart hurts.

“I didn’t like them taking advantage of you. It’s not right. I had killed the bastard beside you, and to know he-” His voice is shaky, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just- I’m so sorry, Dongju.”

Dongju doesn’t like how much he feels.

Wants to pretend it’s all okay and that the pain in his heart doesn’t exist, that his heart doesn’t race before beating irregularly with confusion. That none of it exists and he’s not shaking- that he’s not crying in front of Gunhak right now.

But the fingers that brush away tears tell him it’s inescapable; that everything that’s happened in the past week is true, and here he is: facing it head on.

Sobs rack through his chest and he’s pulled into an embrace, immediately tucking his face into the other’s neck and squeezing his hand (with fingers that naturally interlocked) that hangs by their side.

“Don’t cry, please.”

Dongju cries louder.

He cries until tears won’t pour from his eyes anymore, and he resorts to pouting and sniffling like a child. His throat burns, and so do his eyes.

The way Gunhak looks at him isn’t good for his heart either.

A knock sounds at the door and Gunhak slowly lets go of him, running a hand through his locks in a way that’s far more endearing than it should be; in a way that makes his stomach flip (which shocks him, because: since when did he allow people to touch his hair?)

Lips press to Dongju’s temple and then he’s watching Gunhak open the door to Seonghwa, who ushers him out, smiling gently as he notices Dongju’s conscious state, and steps in, successfully replacing Gunhak.

It’s all so fast, and Dongju just stares with glassy eyes, not understanding the burning want to keep Gunhak close long after he’s gone.

Dongju furrows his brows and presses gentle fingers to temple, brushing over the place where lips had been placed.

He ponders the meaning, and cringes at how the thought seems so terribly... So terribly lo- love-. Love sick.

Even the words make him wince.

“Still hurts?”

He freezes, dropping his hand slowly as he nods, as if he’s been caught in a forbidden act.

“Yeah, I- I guess you could say that.”

-

Gunhak makes it a habit to visit Dongju until the medical staff tells him he’s recovered enough to leave.

Dongju doesn’t think he can sleep another night without Gunhak’s hands combing through his hair, reminding him that it’s okay. That he doesn’t need to pretend this time: that it really is okay.

And it's so very calming.

So Gunhak makes another habit of frequenting Dongju’s quarters.

(“Are you sure? It’s kind of-”, “Shut up, would you?” Earning him a moderately strong bite to the hand that he laughs off whole-heartedly, Dongju pouting like a scolded child.)

But it’s not long until he needs to pretend again.

His stomach twists at the notice that he needs to be sent on yet another mission.

Seonghwa sends Gunhak with him.

(“Protect him like you would protect anyone else, understand?”, “I’m not like Wooyoung, Seonghwa.”)

If Seoho and San work well together, then Gunhak and Dongju work the same, if not better. There’s not a mission the boy goes on without the older, and soon enough there is no fear of missions: no fear of anything. He knows that no matter what, he has people who would go to the ends of the world for him (as tried and proven).

Dongju thinks if Yeosang has San and Wooyoung, then he has Dongmyeong and Gunhak.

And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t need to pretend that everything is okay. Because it is: it really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!!  
again, this was written in two days (and a half, i checked over it for a bit before posting) so i apologise if anything is amiss!  
i thought of making another chapter of this, but i'll have to see tbh,,, not too confident in this if im honest  
first time ive written something this heavy with so many words aaa!!  
i feel bad for making dongju suffer (yeosang too) and seonghwa (and gunhak) worry BUT it worked out, didn't it?
> 
> if you wanna comment anything, please do! it encourages me to continue writing <3
> 
> follow me on twitter if you'd like;;; @/kkochiya , im always down to scream about my endless list of groups that i stan <3 just send a msg


	2. to love or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you'd like to scream w/ me abt ateez, oneus, or any other group, my twt is @/kkochiya
> 
> playlist!!  
\- numb by cix  
\- bingbing by oneus  
\- how to live by keepitinside, limbo  
\- kill bill by brown eyed girls  
\- slow dive by a.c.e  
\- airplane mode by limbo  
\- not mine by day6  
\- night aviation (the interpretation of dreams) by gwsn  
\- twilight by ateez  
\- white by jeong sewoon  
\- one & only by gowon (loona)

Rushing wind. Screeching tires.

It’s all so fast.

Flashing blue and red mingles to a purple in the slightly reflective scuffed black metal, sirens wailing in a deafening drone that makes the trio wince ceaselessly. Louder - they’re getting louder. It’s in that moment that he rapidly pulls at the wheel, causing a sharp swerve to the right, before centering the instrument he wields and continuing down garbage littered alleys.

The palpitations urge him on.

More routes: endless ones. It’s like the city is labyrinthine, and they’re simply caught up in its maze-like structure. But that means so are those hot on their trail.

Playing them like a game, he moves his pawn strategically, weaving his way through the board before finding a place where he can finally declare that sweet “checkmate”.

Soon the red and blue lights are becoming a faint memory (perhaps that’s a stretch), and the shrieking sirens are swiftly dissipating into a cacophony of the city’s sounds - overwhelmed by a force much bigger than its own.

Breath held, he waits: fingers tapping nervously on the firm plastic of the steering wheel.

One minute.

Three.

Five minutes pass, and there are no longer any sirens to be heard.

The ignition is cut off, and his head falls to the wheel he lays his hands upon, sigh escaping his lips airily; shaking almost. He seems fragile - is, indeed, fragile - and ever so shatterable in this moment. 

Eyes travel his quivering figure.

Two out of the trio sit in the back; fingers of the older tapping rhythmically onto the soft skin on the inner wrist of the smaller, timing the short breaths he struggles to take in his dazed panic.

It had been so fast.

“Seoho, breathe.” The other mumbles encouragingly, fingers tangled in the boy’s now raven locks, fingers still beating as calmly as possible despite their owner’s internal breakdown in the moments that pass.

Seoho listens to the older and takes deep breaths (and he supposes their faithful driver does too: hearing more timed breaths rather than laborious pants out of what he assumes to be both immense pain and panic).

Slowly the taps cease, and they’re all sitting in a tense silence. Or, at least, they’re trying to, but the small grunts from the front seat are off-putting; worrisome. It’s a stark reminder that everything is very much not okay - that this whole situation is an entire disaster, and it’s all so wrong.

It’s a mix of guilt, worry, and terror that bubbles up.

“Seonghwa, love-”

“I’m fine, Ravn.”

He isn’t (and it’s painfully obvious from how he refrains from uttering Youngjo’s name), not at all.

But no one can persuade the boy otherwise: especially not now.

His fingers coated in fresh blood, he whimpers, watching how the crimson spills so heavily upon the fine leather seats (which they’re going to have to wash to hell to get rid of the stains to come) with every puff despite the pressure he puts on his side. It’s spilling so quickly, and he feels sick at the sight; bile rising up in his throat despite how harshly he swallows it down.

It’s painful - evidently - and he’s near tears. But bullet wound or not, he puts on a strong face, revs up the engine and rips at his clothing: wrapping the dark material tightly around his waist before pressing lightly at the accelerator with his foot.

Ravn - Youngjo - feels the car lurch at once, and his mouth is flying open before he can contain himself.

“I really think you shouldn’t be driving right now-”

“Just-” Seonghwa breathes out heavily, lowering his voice to a tone that doesn’t send jolts of pain through his aching side, “Just look after your boyfriend, Youngjo.”

Seoho feels shivers trail down his spine.

Seonghwa’s words are chilling.

Not because of their content, but the way Youngjo looks so conflicted, shocked - so sorrowful - tears at his heart, the guilt beginning to eat away at him; that’s the hitting point.

Seoho feels guilty.

Tires begin rotating, and soon they’re onto asphalt roads.

Wind rushes into the car; gelid and unforgiving. It’s winter, quite evidently, but Seoho shakes vehemently for reasons besides the chilling cold.

Blurred lights.

It’s gone so fast.

They’re back at headquarters before he knows it, and soon enough he finds himself staring with empty eyes at a stern Seonghwa: scribbling furiously at paper as Youngjo relays information (questions are not needed). Seoho doesn’t know how he’s gotten here, with only faint scenes of events coming to mind.

Far too out of it to remember; too dazed.

Glassy eyes gaze soullessly at the suffering boy before him, and he feels himself opening his mouth to murmur something along the lines of “are you okay?” before promptly pressing his lips tightly shut and scolding the impulsiveness his brain has taken on.

Of course, Seonghwa isn’t okay.

But it doesn’t stop a big part of him from wanting to ask; so he can put his mind to rest when Seonghwa tries his best to paint a perfect mask of well-being, concealing his struggles with a chirpy “yes, I’m fine” that will give Seoho some relief, even if he knows it’s fake (but will lead to him wishing for it to be true nevertheless).

He wants Seonghwa to be okay.

Craves it.

There’s a distinct rustling of papers, and the drop of a pen onto hard oak - the sound being familiar after a few of the other’s bursts of worry-fueled anger.

Seat legs screech painfully, and Seoho’s gaze lifts to the bowing figure before him.

“You’re dismissed.”

Seonghwa is stumbling out of the room as swiftly as he can manage, and he feels that guilt building up once more, watching how little droplets of rouge stain the plain flooring in a perfect trail - perfect in that it so completely encapsulates the sick nature of it all.

His eyes meet Youngjo’s ones (which he finds to be filled with tears), shaking pupils clear as day. But as fate has it, instead of comforting the boy, he finds fingers rushing to begin rubbing pretty patterns into the small of his back, and a chin on his shoulder that brings the two of them impossibly close.

Seoho thinks it’s stupid how he lets himself be comforted so easily. How he even needs to be comforted in the first place; seems to find himself scorning the palpitations still going on strong, wishing they’d stop so he could protect the oh-so vulnerable boy before him.

It’s just not like that, however: not today, at least.

Youngjo reaches for the folder containing Seonghwa’s precious ink-marked parchment, free fingers sliding into a warm interlock with Seoho’s and leading him out of the suddenly stuffy briefing room (which seems to have been suffocating the younger from the moment they stepped foot into it, since he finds it so much easier to breathe on the way to the elevator, blinking away whatever tears had decided to prickle at eyes during the whole ordeal).

Silent. Their walk to the small box is silent. And soon, they’re going up; slowly. The elevator dings and Seoho is tugged along to Youngjo’s quarters where the older slips his hand out of the warm grasp, pushing at the cold material of the door and hurrying through.

Like a ticking time bomb, he explodes: promptly breaks down into sobs, and Seoho finds himself rushing after him, clinging desperately to the other’s shaking figure.

“It’s okay, Youngjo, please don’t-” Wavering - his voice is wavering, “Don’t cry like that.”

Not once in his life has he watched the older break down so easily. Not once. Because whilst Youngjo isn’t necessarily the pillar of strength, he keeps his tears in rather well; pushing away emotions in favour of aiding others. It’s in his learned nature.

So Seoho viciously blinks his own tears away, and sits the boy down, coaxing him carefully the entire time. He thinks the boy deserves to be pampered at this moment - treated like he too is inexplicably fragile and precious.

After all, it has been a while.

He taps gentle beats onto the older’s inner wrist, wiping softly at trailing tears. Tells the boy to breathe, and smiles slightly at the genuine attempt through loud and stuttering sniffles.

It must be soothing - the taps - because Youngjo’s lashes seem to gently drift together, blinking slowly, slowly, until they stay static; shut lightly - feather-light - in place. His eyes remain shut, and soon his breathing evens out.

Seoho takes up the task of carrying him to his bed (despite the big hassle of having to carry the evidently taller boy), and tucking him in, ensuring the blankets wrap around his figure adequately without restricting him: just right.

Eyes linger over the boy’s features: diligently ingraining them into long-term memory. From the soft curl of his lips to the gentle slope of his nose, and further onto the faint tear tracks down supple cheeks. It’s pretty - Youngjo is pretty.

He always is, and it’s addictive.

Seoho reluctantly tears his eyes away from the beauty and moves from the room: set on one burning task.

Fingers curl around nothing in suspense-filled anxiety.

-

Gritted teeth, he hisses at the painstakingly slow slide of metal through raw skin; goosebumps prickle his skin at the foul sound of extraction, but settle down at the satisfying ring of metal thrown against metal - the sound of the bullet finally leaving his damn body.

It’s like a weight has been lifted.

Seonghwa sighs in relief, rolling his shoulders in circles and listening to the loud pop.

“Stop squirming, Hwa.”

He pauses in his movements and pouts at the other, purposely catching his hard gaze among busy movement. Maybe it’s the look he’s giving the boy, that brings his hands to a slow stop-

“Don’t give me that look.”

Definitely the look.

“Look, if you hadn’t gotten yourself shot, we wouldn’t be here, now would we?”

He chews at his lip and reluctantly nods, watching how the other’s fingers move skillfully fast, diligently cleaning at his wound (to which he quietly whimpers at, eliciting a chuckle from the blue-haired boy and a weak “shut up” from Seonghwa).

Clean linen is carefully wrapped around his midsection, with Seonghwa muttering quiet profanities at every touch to his sensitive skin, still terribly painful despite all of the work done to it. He feels the pressure of the bandages on his wound and decides it’s way better than a shaking hand at keeping blood from seeping out of it, considering how the flow of crimson liquid from that area has almost completely stopped.

God, it still hurts, though.

Seonghwa is popping a painkiller in his mouth when the door is pulled open quietly: the boy before him not even sparing a glance in the midst of his work.

But Seonghwa does.

He feels his fingers begin to fiddle with the cloth of the medical bed he’s perched upon; breathing slightly quickened as he swallows down the pill dry.

“Keonhee, leave.”

“What? No? Your dressing isn’t even on properly yet.”

“I said, leave.”

Turning to glance behind him, the blue-haired boy purses his lips, before turning back to a serious Seonghwa. He outright curses the behaviour of the boy before handing the bandages over to him and mumbling something about wrapping it tightly around the wound to which Seonghwa mutters in agreement to. 

After a small scene, he’s shuffling out of the room (not forgetting to shoot a heavily judgemental look at the raven-haired boy who dawdles at the door).

With a click, the door shuts and Seonghwa furrows his brows, staring at the other in the room with an intensity that could melt entire ice caps.

It even sends a shocking shiver down the boy’s spine: one so powerful it even jolts him (and Seonghwa knows in that moment that the other is scared).

But there, in that state, they stay.

Sickening silence-

“Well, that was one adventure, wasn’t it?”

A sharp chuckle; unnatural and jarring.

“How can you even joke right now, Seoho? Tell me, because I can’t understand why you-” His words are escaping him, and he feels rather breathless, gulping down whatever it is he’s feeling in favour of continuing, “Why would you be so fucking stupid like that.”

Seoho hangs his head, locks casting dark shadows over his eyes.

Guilt. It’s bubbling now more than ever.

“Are you going to give me a reply?”

Lips open only to shut; words build up only to fall. It’s a vicious cycle, and it leaves Seoho feeling more stupid than Seonghwa could ever believe him to be.

“I thought not.”

It’s all his fault. 

If he hadn’t been so careless - so stupid - then Seonghwa wouldn’t be so god damn mad at him right now; wouldn’t be in pain with a bullet sized hole in the side of his torso. But he had, and now he’s facing the consequences- or rather, Seonghwa is.

He’s fine; Seonghwa isn’t.

Stupid Seonghwa.

Stupid.

Seoho scorns the boy before him vehemently because he’s too good-willed, to the point where he’d let himself be torn apart, salvaged, and rebuilt just for the whole process to repeat so that someone else wouldn’t need to endure it. So that everyone besides him was safe and would come home to those they loved.

Because Seonghwa was just so good.

-

Money.

That was the motive.

As always, Seonghwa had prepared the mission (even considering countless of alternate plans to compensate for anything going wrong - the last failure still an open wound he wasn’t ready to move on from). And as always, it was perfect.

Hongjoong had loaned money to someone - a group of people they had been allies with back when KQ was beginning to shift to his leadership - that thought it would be alright to not pay off their debt. This, although forgotten for a while, had resurfaced, and it led to a string of curses from their faithful leader, and the strict demand for the money to be retrieved.

Hence their newly bloomed mission.

It was an internal mission, and Seonghwa decided it would be best to send only three people for the job: Seoho, Youngjo, and himself.

Not that he didn’t trust the other kids - of course not, that would be the complete opposite from the truth - but if it concerned Hongjoong, it concerned them above all.

And Seoho had only one task in this whole mission: 

Walk out of there with the damn money.

But as fate would have it, it was not that simple.

Meeting arranged, Seoho had shown up with Youngjo as his mentioned “friend” (“It’s a precaution, I’m sure you understand.”). All according to plan. It was a peaceful meeting, of course, with a discussion of the nature of the debt and whether something would need to be organised for the money to be returned to its rightful owner.

Seoho was the light-hearted jokester, as usual, with Youngjo taking up the task of seriously reasoning with those before them.

A well-practiced dynamic they had together.

“Bet you’re wondering how on earth you got yourself into this shit, hm?”

Chuckles had bubbled from his throat at his own words, watching the sourness spread through the features of the man before him like a ripple effect. It was all fun and games, and if anything, it amused him how terribly nervous they seemed before him; gave him an ego boost.

Laughter subsiding, he leaned back in his seat, relaxing his limbs and ignoring the glances both parties were giving him.

It was all fun and games.

So when he heard the familiar click of a gun being cocked, he immediately placed his hand on the back of the other boy’s head and pushed down, feeling the rush of a bullet narrowly missing its target and instead slotting itself into the skull of one of the men that had been conversing with them.

Youngjo gave him a panicked look, before sliding out his own weapon, urging Seoho to follow suit.

The body count raised to five by the time they were able to get in touch with Seonghwa, with Youngjo quickly relaying the information as Seoho picked off men who unfortunately peeked their heads out at the wrong time.

It was going smoothly, considering the shitstorm that had ensued.

Until it wasn’t.

Wailing sirens grew in intensity, the flashing colours seeping into all possible crevices like a growing stain on a clean carpet. It got louder, and louder, and brighter, and brighter until Seoho couldn’t even distinguish his own hammering heart from the sounds around him; couldn’t even hear his own thoughts rush through his mind.

The first uniform-clad person came into view, and the boy’s fingers curled involuntarily, without proper reasoning.

Shot fired, his hand quivered pathetically.

Overwhelming. It was too much.

Too fast.

What happened to their mission plan?

This kind of shit was never accounted for, and Seoho for sure had never been thrust into such a position because when all the jokes subsided, it became harder for him to keep his composure (that and the fact that following a set of instructions was easily done, but improvising was another story).

More figures came into his frame of vision, and he tucked himself behind a pillar of stone, only peeking from behind it to get a shot at the approaching figures; his bullets lodging themselves deeply into skulls.

He could hear Youngjo calling for him, and knew for sure that the boy was by his side, trying to usher him to go. But it sounded distant: washed away by all of the chaos.

Pulling at his trigger for another shot, the dry click of an empty barrel sounds. Seoho pulls again, before cursing and fiddling with bullets as quickly as he can, inserting them into the empty space where well-used bullets had been before.

And in an instant, he’s being pushed to the side, and the distinct sound of metal piercing flesh is all too loud in his ears.

Another shot is fired from in front of him, and he’s being dragged away by his collar by someone he knows isn’t Youngjo.

In his blurred vision, he sees the other shooting precisely, retreating slowly, but evidently lagging behind to give them the cover they need.

Seoho’s world spins, and he’s thrown into the back of a car.

“Fuck- Youngjo! Hurry the fuck up, we need to go.”

Youngjo is running backward, taking shots that nine out of ten times hit their intended target before he’s jumping into the back of the car, and slamming the door shut; the car lurching forward as they begin speeding out of the building.

Seoho watches how Seonghwa pulls viciously at the steering wheel; how he coats it with that sickening red colour, and makes the entire vehicle smell strongly of iron.

It’s overwhelming.

-

“I’m sorry.”

The words come from his throat that’s suddenly incredibly dry, tongue moving clumsily as he speaks, causing the sounds to come across as mumbled and wavering.

Seonghwa pauses in his furious wrapping of linen, and clicks his own tongue, glaring upwards at the slightly shaking figure of the older. He wants to be angrier than he is, and tries to convince himself he’s not just worried like usual: that he’s mad at the boy for getting him hurt. 

But he knows it’s not the truth.

Air escapes his lips in what comes out as an inaudible sigh, and his gaze is slowly crumbling; softening.

“I’m sorry too-”

“For what? Getting shot for me?”

Seoho stabs his nails into his palm at the retort that slips out, lips forming an apology the same moment he hears the words ring tauntingly in his ears.

“For not considering the risks better.” Seonghwa calmly places the roll of bandage beside him to focus his attention on the other, “You could have gotten shot today, and it would have been my fault. So yes, I’m sorry.”

Laughter. Seonghwa joins in on it weakly, like they’re lightly joking, rather than having a heartfelt conversation.

He’s smiling at the boy gently, blinking away tears that he hopes the younger won't notice and steadies his voice to give off amusement rather than concern.

“You’re more stupid than you let on, Hwa.”

“I guess I am.”

The raven-haired boy notices the slight patch of scarlet adorning the once pristine white cloth that winds around the younger’s torso, and takes decisive steps forward, earning him a confused stare, especially as he picks up the roll of bandage.

“Shall I help you?”

Seonghwa shrugs and keeps his arms raised for the boy, keeping his gaze floating on anything besides him as he encircles cloth around his waist with acute delicacy.

-

“There, you’re all done.”

Seonghwa hums, running fingers over the tightly wound material in thought, and nodding slowly. He appreciates how the older has made sure to securely tie the loose ends in a way that won’t disrupt him or irritate him further but doesn’t voice this.

He wants to say something to the boy, knowing the situation still affects him greatly despite their talk, but can’t bring himself to do it. Something he thinks is fear and doesn’t understand why it’s present.

The silence of thought between them is soon broken.

“I should get back to… you know.” Seoho is reaching for the door’s handle as he speaks, not so much as waiting for Seonghwa to say anything, because he knows he won’t (not now at least), “Is there anything you need?”

Despite perking up at the question, Seonghwa tries to conceal his interest at once.

“Could you call Hongjoong for me?”

Seoho stiffens.

It’s not unusual for the two to be with each other: not at all. In fact, it’s the most normal thing that has happened today. But Hongjoong seeing Seonghwa injured…

Last time that happened, he hospitalised someone (and Hongjoong isn’t one to hurt people he’s close to, but it seemed when Seonghwa was involved, anything could happen).

Maybe Seonghwa notices his hesitation or the way his fingers cling desperately to the door handle, and the way his brows furrow at once like he’s in deep thought. Whatever it is, he lets out a small laugh - perhaps what could be called a giggle - and waves Seoho off.

“I won’t tell him, don’t worry.”

The rouge that floods to his cheeks is sudden and off-putting, but he mumbles a “thank you” nonetheless, and makes his way to fulfill the younger’s wishes, hearing how Seonghwa wheezes out a burst of laughter as he leaves (shortly joined with little whines of pain).

-

  1. He types in the number swiftly and smiles slightly at the green light that flashes, followed by the susurrate sliding of steel doors.

It was the same, obviously, but it still felt nice to know he was even allowed to know the code, considering how “top secret” it had been (only Seonghwa, Youngjo and Hongjoong knew it, as well of Seoho of course).

Nevertheless, he wipes away the small quirk of his lips and steps into the office, head lowered respectfully. This isn’t just a casual visit, it’s a serious one.

“Oh? What’s wrong? You never come here without Hwa.”

“He’s asking for you.”

“And he couldn’t come here himse-”

“Infirmary. He’s in the infirmary.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widen, and he sits up at once, knee bumping loudly against the metal of his desk (but it’s obvious he doesn’t pay it mind from how quickly he’s moving), and immediately scrambling around the room for items that Seoho doesn’t even register from how quickly they’re located and snatched.

Blankets. Something soft. Coloured pencils?

Seoho averts his eyes as the boy moves.

“You can leave now.”

He opens his mouth to respond, somewhat surprised by the boy’s suddenly cold tone, but lets his lips find each other, and merely nods, escaping the office swiftly: making a beeline for the elevator when he hears the quick footsteps behind him.

An emotional Hongjoong is a forced to be reckoned with, and considering how he’s bravely faced Seonghwa already, the thought of going through another session seemed rather daunting; draining even.

They both board the small box that descends rapidly; orange LED-lit sign eating through floor numbers at a staggering rate, until it reaches the ground floor, and Hongjoong is stepping off (and Seoho can finally breathe as the doors shut behind him).

Jolting harshly, the elevator continues its descent.

The raven-haired boy watches the numbers turn into a mix of letters; B-1, B-2, and a single ding sounds before the doors are sliding open. Quickly, he steps out and begins his paced walk towards a familiar door.

295: Ravn - Youngjo.

Perhaps even more familiar than his own.

Upon further thought, Seoho realises how odd that seemed. The fact that he spent more time with the boy in his room than by himself in his own room - or even with other people.

Because they weren’t… together.

Not really.

Even if the way he found himself opening the door gently, so as to not wake the boy, before tip-toeing towards the other’s bed, and slipping under the covers, letting himself curl into the boy’s back - sighing in a relieved manner - said otherwise.

It was just.

Natural.

They did it because it meant having another person close by for comfort: someone to love without the risks involved.

Yes, that was it.

Seoho tries to forget about it as he snuggles closer to the taller, and burrows his head against the crook of his neck.

-

Gentle taps sound at the door.

“Come in.” Smooth, and steady is the voice that replies, and he steps into the room quickly.

“Here for Seonghwa?”

He nods, not even phased by how it’s common knowledge that if there’s Hongjoong there’s Seonghwa. It’s somewhat warming, even, and he wants to smile.

But then again, maybe Seonghwa is just the only patient being treated here.

The kind-faced doctor smiles at him gently, before leading the way through a series of corridors, heels clicking in a way that somewhat pesters the boy (but that may just be his creeping anxiety).

If anything, the walk is excruciating: just the annoying click of shoes, and his overactive mind poking at every insecurity and fear possible; tearing him up inside the longer it went on.

But the corridor was not endless, and of course, they found their way to the room Seonghwa was said to be staying in.

“This is it.”

Sometimes Hongjoong dislikes how cold and impersonal everyone is to him because of his position; sometimes he just hates how cold and impersonal everyone is generally. But a part of him thrives off of how it’s because he’s feared that they speak to him in such a way.

It’s thrilling.

But that’s not the point right now.

With the doctor departed, he breathes out a sigh.

One knock, then two. And he’s opening the door slowly, keeping his eyes to the floor as if he’s frightened of what he may see.

“Joong?”

His gaze lifts from the prettily tiled flooring, and he finds his eyes lingering over the sight of a shirtless Seonghwa: scolding himself for admiring when he catches sight of the white linen that lines his waist.

Concern. Worry. His eyes widen, and he can almost hear Seonghwa’s incessant nagging kicking in and repeating like a broken record at the sight (even though he does find it endearing, but again, that’s not the point right now).

Lost for words, he lets impulse decide his wording, and manages a step forward before stopping himself in his tracks.

“Love, what happened?”

Cue a playful eye roll.

“Love?” Hongjoong could melt at the boy’s lightheartedly warm honey tone, “You’ve been spending too much time with Youngjo.”

“Would you rather I call you darling? Doll?”

“Mm, I think Seonghwa is fine too.”

There’s honey dripping from his eyes as he makes his way to sit beside the (slightly) older, slipping his own hands into colder ones, and rubbing at them to bring some heat to them, like a natural heat pack, just for the boy.

It’s domestic almost: how Seonghwa simply leans into his touch, and sighs, feeling whatever tension that had burdened him swiftly dissipating with every brush against his skin.

But that’s also not the point right now.

“What happened, Hwa?”

Hongjoong knows he’s pressing something he shouldn’t, considering the evident evasion from moments earlier, and how the boy tenses beside him.

But it’s only fair that he should know, he thinks when guilt tries to rear its ugly head.

It’s only fair, he assures himself, seeing how Seonghwa has taken to fiddling with his fingers rather than recounting the events of the day, even though the thought summons a bitter acid taste at the back of his tongue.

It takes a while but the silence proves suffocating and Hongjoong opts to speak again, only to be quickly interrupted by the other’s voice.

“It’s irrelevant.”

He scoffs and watches the scowl form on Seonghwa’s face at his response.

Maybe he had made a mistake in displaying his disbelief, but the thought escaped him in favour of overwhelming anger.

“Fucking irrelevant? You have a bullet hole in your side, Hwa, and I want you to explain.”

That tone: demanding. 

If he found it attractive before (when it definitely wasn’t used on him), it felt wrong and foul now; like it was never meant to be used on him - something forbidden.

Seonghwa didn’t like it one bit.

Maybe he wore his heart on his sleeve: that or, his face had twisted to mirror his emotions (which he would assume to be the most likely one). But, Hongjoong’s expression seemed to soften rather quickly after the words left his mouth; venom left with no time to drip, wiped away hurriedly.

Fingers reach to brush against the fabric that wraps itself tightly around the boy’s waist, eliciting a flinch before becoming accustomed to the feather-light touch and allowing comfort and warmth to spread from the afflicted area.

Gazes meet each other, and whilst they wish to tear away from one another, they simply remain in place as if transfixed.

“Look, Hwa, I’m sorry for talking to you like that but,” He breathes out shakily, “I’m worried and I want to… I want to do something about whoever let this hap-”

“Don’t, Hongjoong. Forget it.”

“But-”

“Darling, you don’t need to hurt people for me, okay?” A bitter smile decorates his lips, “I’m here, I’m alive. Am I not enough?”

The words die in his throat suddenly, and his mind is rushing to say no - to loudly disagree - but it simply won’t come out. It’s almost pitiful how he struggles, but to make up for it, he slides his fingers to interlock with the boy’s and thinks that the way Seonghwa relaxes is a good sign that he understands.

Seonghwa was always good at hearing the words unspoken, especially when it came to Hongjoong.

It was endearing.

Hongjoong uses his free hand to dig around in the bundle of blankets that he’s brought, setting one of the soft fabrics over the boy’s legs and continuing to scavenge before letting out a quiet murmur of triumph, having found everything he wanted.

Colouring pencils, colouring book. Soft toys, heat packs.

Seonghwa smiles gently at the thought, bringing a plush animal towards his chest as Hongjoong offers it, liking how the soft material feels against his skin and melting against it immediately.

When the smaller tries to slip his hand out of the other’s hold, he holds on tighter (“Hwa, how will I draw for you if I don’t have my hand?” “Use the other, you’re warm.”), and eventually Hongjoong has to settle for keeping their fingers intertwined.

-

“I don’t think the colours are right, Joongie.”

“But it’s supposed to be-”

“The red is too bright, doesn’t match.”

“Hwa-”

“Maybe if we used pink?”

“Seonghwa-”

“Maybe blue would be better, actually-”

“Park Seonghwa, listen to me.”

His lips curl to a pout.

A cute pout, but nevertheless a pout.

“What is it now?”

His fingers tap absentmindedly against the back of the other’s, and if anything, it’s telling of how nervous he is in the moment. It could be avoided, he knows very well, but of course, the need to know is getting a hold of him like it always does (hence his system of reports).

Maybe he’s just too paranoid.

“Can you please, baby, please, tell me what happened?”

“Charming me won’t help, Hongjoong.”

A deep frown scars his features.

He’s upset now.

Irrationally and without reason.

Why was Seonghwa so damn difficult? It didn’t make sense. And the more he thought of it, the more it got him upset, and the more anger bubbled inside of him. Anger from worry, but anger nonetheless.

He’s not sure where it all comes from: where all the courage to spill his feelings comes from. But he knows as soon as he’s saying it, he wants to stop, and go back to colouring in pretty spaceships with Seonghwa.

But it’s too late for that; he’s already shouting.

“Can’t you let me worry for once? Let me protect you? Seonghwa, I need you to understand how important you- how important this is to me.” He curses at how he stutters, “I have no idea what happened, and what may have been the reason you wouldn’t be coming home to me today, and that’s just- It’s something I can’t have- I can’t live with that.”

Rambling. Seonghwa knows it well: Hongjoong just rambles when he’s worked up, and whilst it’s rare, it’s something he’s unfortunately familiar with.

Does he say what he really means when he does?

Probably. And it’s why Seonghwa takes it to heart; his mind chewing up the information and spitting it back out as if distasteful - harmful even.

“Do you care about having everything in your control or about me?”

“What? That’s-”

“So it’s the former.”

“No- Hwa, don’t twist my wor-”

“Then, tell me you care about me. Tell me.”

Hongjoong thinks his heart is hammering, considering the painfully loud thrum of rushing blood in his eardrums. Doesn’t like it one bit, and thinks it’s stupid that he’s so deeply affected. Thinks it’s stupid he can’t just tell Seonghwa everything, even now.

He tries to summon the burst of courage from before and writhes in pathetic peril at the failed attempts to summon the words.

Their fearless leader Hongjoong: broken down to a cowering fool due to his feelings.

Honestly, it was embarrassing.

There was a reason he never openly admitted them: a bad reason, but nevertheless, a reason. It became the reason he never allowed himself the physical contact that Youngjo had with the boy, and the reason he never let himself tell the boy the reason.

Because speaking it into existence made it all too real, and real meant real pain; real hurt.

What if Seonghwa didn’t return someday?

God knows the boy would die for one of the members, but what if one day he really did?

Hongjoong felt his tongue go dry: an acidic taste prominent at the back of his throat.

“Well, then, I think we’re done here. You can leave.”

“Hwaseong, love-”

“Take your shit and go, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa watches the boy sit in shock as the sharp words leave his lips, “Now.”

It sends the shorter scrambling for his things.

An angry Seonghwa was a force to be reckoned with, but an angry and deeply hurt Seonghwa was something far worse.

Pencils were picked up in a rush, and soon the other was slamming the door shut before him: Seonghwa clinging tightly to the softness of the relinquished stuffie as he gazed soullessly at the departing figure.

“Idiot.” He mumbles solemnly, moving his body carefully into a lying position, and squeezing eyelids shut.

Mulling over it, he decided the throbbing pain in his heart overwhelmed the stinging pain in his side.

But there are no painkillers for heartache.

-

Youngjo awakens to the sight of Seoho in his arms: cuddled close to his chest with hair strewn messily in a way that he finds adorable.

He thinks that it’s always nice to wake up with someone besides you, especially when everything felt so terribly overwhelming, and tries to convince himself that it’s the only thing he thinks.

So, if anything, Youngjo is thankful that the boy stays with him, and spends a moment or two to simply be still and admire the sleeping figure before him; to trail his eyes along his features, down his neck, and just appreciate him fully.

In his beauty, that is; no more.

It seems that his staring awakens the boy, however, and he’s averting his eyes the moment he sees the younger’s lashes fluttering ever so prettily.

He pretends he’s only now noticing the boy awakening because something in his consciousness tells him to; tells him it’s for the best, and so he listens and slowly shuts his eyes to keep them from drawing back to the younger.

“Are you okay?”

His voice is rough and considerably deep, and Youngjo notes how terrible it is for his heart at the ungodly time that it is (two in the morning to be exact) to be hearing such a thing.

“I’m fine, Gunminnie.”

He watches the boy smile gently at the nickname and hum in acceptance, taking to pulling at the other’s shirt in a way he assumes to be out of habit, but still feels his heart race at the act nevertheless.

It’s always like this.

Seoho could do possibly anything and it would make Youngjo incredibly weak - insanely vulnerable - just for him. Could make his heart hammer in ways he never expected, and send fluttering feelings to his stomach.

And that was something he could either accept or push away, because he, above all people, knew that their relationship just wasn’t like that. Wasn’t supposed to be so soft.

So when he finds himself gazing into the boy’s eyes, he doesn’t delicately brush away the stray strands and lean in gingerly; doesn’t stroke lovingly at soft skin and admire.

He ravenously pushes himself into a fiery liplock with the boy and tries to revel in the wanton moan that suddenly escapes the boy’s throat at the pressure he applies between their lips (probably hard enough to bruise, and he winces at the thought).

Youngjo runs fingers through Seoho’s raven locks, and tugs harshly rather than gently; tries to elicit as many sounds as he can to force himself into the mindset that this is all physical; that this doesn’t count for anything, and he doesn’t think he’s in love with the boy before him.

Because loving isn’t the problem - no, he’s perfectly okay with that.

It’s whether Seoho will accept anything beyond this.

-

Weeks pass, and everything should be okay.

But as usual, they aren’t.

Seoho watches Youngjo fall apart at the seams, and watches him plaster on that stupidly pretty smile of his numerous times; witnesses the lies seep through gritted teeth and lives through the repercussions of the blatant deception.

He’s breaking: slowly but surely.

Maybe it’s because Seonghwa has always been the one keeping everything together, organising everything, making sure nothing went wrong. Maybe that’s why it was so hard to take his place.

Because Seonghwa sure did shoulder a lot of burdens.

Just in the mere week he took over, one person had gotten injured, and one mission had gone bust (something that was generally rare when the other boy had been planning them, but alas, he had to heal).

Seoho watches Youngjo panic as Wooyoung files into the room: arm torn open nastily with bits of grit within the wound. He watches as the boy sends him to the infirmary, and documents the mission’s events with shaky hands. 

But it’s not within his power to help.

Youngjo doesn’t want him to (and begrudgingly, he respects that).

-

“Where is Seonghwa, by the way? We all thought he was sick but it’s been two weeks and-”

“That’s classified information.”

The boy - San - gives him a look, and he doesn’t quite understand the emotion behind it, but assumes it’s somewhat judging him; gauging his words precisely - reading him like an open book.

“Is he okay at least?”

“That’s-”

“So he isn’t.”

Youngjo frowns, nervously glancing at the two others at the table: Gunhak and Yeosang. He wants to brush off the conversation but knows it would be too suspicious- hell, he’s being suspicious anyways by not telling them the damn truth.

Why couldn’t he?

Was it guilt?

He hadn’t done anything wrong, though. That was all-

It feels disgusting to even try to blame the boy, and so he shoves the thought into a dark abyss, regretting having even come across it in the first place.

Sighing, he picks up his pen and continues writing: blatantly ignoring San’s questioning, and tuning out his scoffs and dramatic declarations thereafter.

What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them; couldn’t hurt him either.

-

Dongju turns up at Youngjo’s quarters in the evening: coy and tentative, especially when he notices Seoho also in the room. It’s quite obvious he’s there for a reason, and it piques Seoho’s interest.

The boy was never one to come to others for help, but it somewhat seemed like that was the reason for his visit, considering how nervously he presented himself.

Somewhat endearing.

“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, and parts his lips to speak.

But it seems after casting Seoho a nervous glance he’s not up to talking just yet.

“It’s okay, Seoho won’t tell anyone if it’s something bothering you-”

“Seonghwa seems sad.”

Shock is plastered over the eldest’s face, as he shoots a look at Seoho who is equally as taken off guard by the statement as he is. He begins to wonder how Dongju had even gotten to talk to Seonghwa, considering his stay in the infirmary. If anyone, Keonhee would be the only person seeing - nevertheless talking - to the boy.

He wants to ask - almost does - but Dongju beats him to it, reading his thoughts precisely (something he seemed to have a knack for).

“Keonhee took me to see him.” Fiddling with his sleeves, he continues, “Think he misses Hongjoong? Or you- I don’t know, can you visit him though? Don’t like him sad.”

Youngjo almost coos at the boy’s sweet request, but remembers how much he opposes babying (unless it's Gunhak who is doing the babying, then maybe he’ll deal). He thinks it’s adorable how much the younger cares and sends him a comforting smile.

But he ponders the content of the boy’s words.

Seonghwa sad? That wouldn’t do. And what was this missing Hongjoong ordeal? He had spent this entire time thinking the two were together: happy, probably getting through whatever their relationship had come to.

The fact this was entirely untrue was...

Concerning, to say the least.

“Alright, we will, Dongju. Thank you for coming here.”

A nod. The boy looks like he wants to say more but ultimately resorts to smiling awkwardly; stepping back to reach for the door handle and twisting it swiftly.

And then he’s hurrying out of the room, letting the door slowly shut behind him without much delay.

Voices sound from outside the door, less hushed, more excitable, slowly fading as they move further from the room.

Dongju and what sounds like Gunhak considering how deep the pitch had been.

(Youngjo tells himself to not coo over it, but allows himself to regardless, allowing a smile to tug at his lips.)

Seoho eyes Youngjo and a soft smile tugs at his lips. He reaches out to begin carding fingers through dark locks as if it’s second nature (knowing that the boy adored such affectionate acts, and deciding to indulge him - and himself, but if anyone asked, that wasn’t the case).

“Tomorrow, hm?”

“Yeah,” He breathes out, relaxing into the touch, “tomorrow.”

-

“Have you heard?”

Whispers are exchanged; carried through halls swiftly and secretly like contraband.

Rumours aren’t necessarily deadly if they aren’t true, but it seemed that in this case, they were indeed valid, and if the little scraps of information were anything to go by, Seoho could assume that it was bad.

Really bad.

Words were toxic and untrustworthy: only seeing the topic in question would prove to oneself that it was true. Even if someone believed what they said was true, there was no proof to back it up.

But this was true.

And there was living proof.

“Have you heard? Hongjoong’s been-”

It’s always a bad sign when the members begin gossiping about their leader so avidly, considering their positions. Generally, it would be those lower on the hierarchy discussing him (especially because they usually did not get to see the man in the flesh), but now it was different.

If it reached them and wasn’t brushed off, then whatever it was must be true.

This fact made it all the more terrifying.

“Hongjoong’s been killing cops.”

Of course, they had rules about this kind of thing.

Despite being criminals, if there was no order - no rules - then the entire system would come crashing down like a wave in the middle of a raging storm; and that could not happen - not ever.

So, they had rules.

Rules.

Seoho scoffs when he thinks about it all.

How hypocritical, huh?

The very same person that created such rules is now breaking them without a care; is now endangering the lives of everyone else recklessly.

And for what reason?

Unfortunately, the grapevine couldn’t gather that much information (even though ultimately, it didn’t matter).

That day, he had visited Seonghwa with Youngjo. Watched how the boy willingly burrowed his head into the crook of the older’s neck; willingly left himself vulnerable in the presence of the other, let himself be taken care of.

He had thought it to be endearing - their relationship. It was something comfortable and safe (that and Seoho enjoyed Seonghwa taking a break from his rabid worrying for a while, even if it somewhat made his heartstrings ache at how soft Youngjo was with him).

Talking came naturally, and it felt like a weight had been lifted. Seonghwa was okay, happy, and most importantly, recovering. Soon it would be like the whole incident never happened, and Seoho could focus on keeping himself and others safe.

But as soon as they left the boy, the news had reached them, and everything Seonghwa had said about his encounter - his fight - with Hongjoong made sense with regards to the rumour.

“Hongjoong’s been killing cops.”

The words ring in Seoho’s ears, fuelling his anger as he marches towards the elevator; Youngjo on his heels.

Fuck being carefree, he thinks; “Fuck Kim Hongjoong.” He growls under his breath.

Seething; he’s seething.

He thinks to himself that the emotion bubbling up inside of him is too strong - that he should tone it down before making some drastic mistakes. But if anything, the journey towards the leader’s room just increases his overwhelming rage: knuckles turning bone-white from how hard he’s clenching his fists.

He thinks that Hongjoong deserves the punch to his jaw; deserves the blood dribbling from the side of his lip. Feels Youngjo holding him by the waist to restrain him and thinks about how much he’d like to punch the younger again until he’s apologising vehemently for being such a royal idiot.

But it’s obvious the boy holding him doesn’t.

“Fuck, Seoho, what the fuck was that! You can’t-”

“Bastard- He’s a fucking bastard!”

Hongjoong is rubbing at his jaw gently, staring emptily at the two before him as though suddenly struck with something - which he had been: a fist, and specifically Seoho’s.

Heavy breathing coats the silence, with the sound of heavy thinking creeping in as seconds draw out; a minute even. Time is irrelevant in this instance, for all that matters is the actions that will come next, not how long it takes.

Thick; the air is thick.

“Seoho…” He tries.

Keyword: tries.

“Don’t fucking Seoho me, Hongjoong.” Seoho is shaking with the force of his words, and he’s sure he’d be crumbling from how overwhelming his feelings are if Youngjo wasn’t holding him so tightly: supporting him when he needs it.

“Care to explain why you think killing some blue suits is going to help your boy problems?”

“I just-”

“What happened to our rules? Our rules!”

“They didn’t change-”

“Fuck- They didn’t change? Then why the fuck do you think it’s acceptable to jeopardise yourself and the rest of us?”

Hongjoong is at a loss, and it’s obvious Youngjo wouldn’t be giving his input any time soon. Perhaps he agrees with Seoho, perhaps he doesn’t. But regardless, he remains silent: the wordless voice of reason (perhaps serving as the only barrier stopping Seoho from beating the younger to a pulp as deems just).

He chews up the words, processes them, and decides to harshly swallow them down: knowing Seoho is right with where he’s coming from. It’s embarrassing to accept it, but he has to.

Even the greatest of people must accept defeat when met with it head-on.

“Look, I’m sorry. I just-”

“Care about Seonghwa too much?” Hongjoong’s throat goes dry and painful: eyes suddenly moist, “Yeah, us too, Joong. That doesn’t mean we’re going out being fucking dumbasses.”

“Don’t… Don’t tell him about this.”

Seoho scoffs.

“What, and let you get away with this? Fuck, it’s bad enough we’re probably insanely high on the radar, if anything, you deserve having Seonghwa hate you.”

Hate.

Hongjoong tells himself he doesn’t know why he crumbles at the word but knows damn well why. Knows how much he adores the boy in question and knows his motive for being so reckless. Because truly, he’d go to the ends of the universe for the boy, even if he insisted against it.

God, he’s gone for the boy.

But that really doesn’t justify anything.

“At least let me tell him.”

“And you’re going to stop doing it, right?”

His voice is thick with an emotion Seoho thrives in having the opportunity to witness, “Of course.”

“Then go. Tell him now.”

He stands in shock for a moment, almost ready to snap at the boy for his tone, before remembering the situation at hand, and merely dropping his head in shame. Seoho is right, and he has to accept it.

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

Youngjo slowly leans over to his ear as Hongjoong moves out of the room, grip still strong at the skin of his waist (which, despite him actually liking, brings a creeping sense of anxiety from how it doesn’t move despite the situation being controlled).

“Don’t you think you’re going too far with ordering our leader around?”

The room is cold now that the tension has been relieved, but Seoho feels his body burn pleasantly at the words.

He shudders at the hot breath tickling the shell of his ear and feels the curl of fingers tighten into the fabric of his shirt. His head spins slightly, and his knees are incredibly weak (making him suddenly thankful for how Youngjo is holding him).

It bothers him how much it affects him; bothers him how much he likes it.

“I- Well, he deserves it.”

“And that’s for you to decide?”

The fact that he doesn’t know if the boy behind him is upset or teasing makes his heart hammer in a way he’s unused to. It’s both thrilling and chilling, and he’s somewhat enjoying the touches he’s receiving more than usual. It’s more pleasant than he wishes to confess.

In a swift movement, he’s turned around and facing the boy, and it makes the whole experience that much more real.

“Someone had to put him in his place, Youngjo.”

He speaks confidently, despite the fragile whine that escapes his throat as the older digs his fingers into his flesh, kneading into it slowly.

Seoho doesn’t know what he expects from this, never mind what Youngjo plans on doing, but it’s somewhat intoxicating and he’s slowly succumbing, realising how this game always ends.

“Then that someone should be me, not you, love.”

And unlike when said with Seonghwa, the way he uses the pet name is saccharine - sultry - and Seoho’s falling for it: hard. His eyes probably show off his state clearly, and his heart palpitates at the eye contact they share.

He thrives in this feeling, even if it feels wrong.

Because it does, no matter how many times they go through this. No matter how much he lets himself enjoy this thrill, it always feels off - like there should be something before this; something deeper.

(And maybe they’re both fools for not realising what’s off in this whole exchange.)

It, however, doesn’t stop him from releasing the weak whines from his throat at every precisely pressurised touch leading lower and lower, because if anything, he should indulge in whatever Youngjo is willing to give him.

But he remembers where they are, and brushes the other off carefully and quickly before he finds himself unable to do so.

“I almost forgot,” He pauses, avoiding the gaze Youngjo has on him, “need to talk to Dongju.”

It’s evident that he hesitates before a reluctant hum (perhaps more on the side of a growl) comes from the boy before him, and he finds himself pushing past, and hurrying through steel doors as if incredibly late to his supposed “talk with Dongju”.

Past the doors, he breathes out and feels his heart crumble.

Too close.

Always too close.

It’s like a brush with death when Youngjo is involved.

(And Seoho decides he has a love-hate relationship with it.)

-

Gentle raps at cold metal. It’s quiet enough to not disturb but loud enough to be heard. It’s just how he knows the other appreciates it most.

Weakly, a voice calls: “Come in!”

He’s shaking when he grabs the door handle.

It somewhat hurts: the way the other’s expression turns sour at his presence, and how his gaze drops down to his hands that hold pencil and paper - fiercely scribbling regardless, but increasing in ferocity thereafter.

It feels terrible.

The lead of the boy’s pencil snaps at once, and he’s quickly reaching for a sharpener: hands shaking as he twists the wood coated lead through the small object until sufficiently sharpened. Hongjoong isn’t sure if he’s angry or scared; hates the thought that it could be either.

“Hwa, can we talk?”

Seonghwa flinches at his voice, breathing out a shaky sigh - like he’s psyching himself up - before looking up.

“What is it?”

In a moment like this, he would normally try and approach the boy; try to comfort him. But it was obvious that now, of all times, he wouldn’t be allowed to be so close: didn’t deserve to.

“I did something bad and I apologise.”

“It’s fine that you don’t care, Joong, I’m fin-”

“No- I-” He runs a hand through his hair nervously, “I broke our rules. Badly. And I’m sorry.”

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow, and he’s looking at him with so much confusion mixed with malice that he wants to cry right there. Nothing hurts more than this: nothing. But it’s something he needs to, and he realises that.

It doesn’t matter if it hurts him, he’s not doing it for himself anyway.

For Seonghwa, it’s always for Seonghwa.

“Which one?”

“Cops.”

“Oh.”

Sometimes their shared silence is comfortable; warm. He enjoys it often and takes great enjoyment from being able to just sit in the quiet - to just be.

It’s quite obvious that this moment is different from those.

The silence is dense and heavy. It’s suffocating and cold, like icy winter waters. Hongjoong hates this kind of silence: would much rather Seonghwa scream at him, declare his hatred for him; anything at all.

This silence was deafening.

He’s sure the boy doesn’t even want him in the same room right now because he knows what he’s like and how strictly he follows their rules. Hongjoong knows how much he’s fucked up, and how disappointed the other probably is. Perhaps even blames himself, and it tears him apart inside thinking he could make the other feel guilty for just being.

Seonghwa laughs quietly, small smirk evident on his lips (to which Hongjoong vehemently scolds his heart for fluttering at).

“Did Seoho shout at you? Is that why you’re so sensitive right now?”

He wonders if the boy before him is a mindreader, and almost laughs too, settling for a smile that’s a tad bit too awkward.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Why? He wonders.

Why on earth is Seonghwa joking right now? Why is he smiling so gently at him? Because if anything, he should be seething - should hate him with a passion. Should be scolding him for being so reckless as he normally does.

It’s all so unnerving.

“You know, I guess it’s my fault for not telling you what happened, hm?”

“No- Hwa, of course not-”

“Doll, I’m joking. Calm down a bit, tense isn’t a good look on you.”

Biting his lip, he obeys, shaking his hands off slightly to relieve whatever stress has taken over him. Seonghwa seems satisfied when his shoulders cease seizing up.

“I’ll assume Seoho did all the shouting, so I’ll reward you for enduring and being so good for him, okay?”

Shivers trail down his spine.

Their fearless leader Hongjoong: broken down to a voiceless fool by Seonghwa’s sweetly spun words.

Embarrassing.

“Come here,” He smiles, patting next to him, “sit.”

Hongjoong goes along willingly, ears painfully red at the whole experience.

“Now, doll, you want to know why I got hurt, hm? That’s why you acted out, right?”

A coy nod met with bubbly laughter (abruptly stopped as the boy pressed a finger to his side, and winced, reminding the two of his very real wound).

They meet eyes, and Hongjoong looks away swiftly. Embarrassingly quick.

He feels like a schoolboy again - feels like a child in the eyes of an adult.

“Alright, shall I begin, my love?” Fingers reach to twirl strands of fading red locks, lightly brushing against sensitive skin and eliciting yet another shiver from the smaller.

Hongjoong nods, mumbling a “yes”, and Seonghwa recounts the mission as wished: fingertips playing pretty games with the other’s heart at every touch.

-

“But why didn’t you tell me it was Seoho that-”

Seonghwa huffs, immediately tugging lightly at red hues in his strife (summoning a sound Hongjoong swallows down his throat quickly, flushing at the idea of it slipping out).

“It’s not his fault if that’s what you’ve begun to believe.”

Hongjoong smiles, shaking his head. Feels tears well up in his eyes, and panics as they drip, knowing the boy before him has seen but looking away nevertheless.

Gentle fingers reach out and he stops them with his own: intertwining their digits smoothly whilst rubbing at the saline liquid running down his cheekbones in an attempt to bring them to a halt.

“Joongie, are you okay?”

“Hwa-” His voice breaks pathetically, “Please don’t be so reckless like that.”

“Reck- Reckless? I was not-”

“Please.”

Something like a tug is felt at his heartstrings, and an ache resonates from his heart from then on. His grip on the other’s hand tightens and he feels around for the boy’s pulse, relaxing as he feels the gentle beat, and tapping against the skin accordingly.

(He almost scolds himself for forgiving the boy before him as the rush of feelings leave him winded, but settles down as he knows how terrible soft he gets in the presence of the other, and remembers where it all comes from: he decides it’s all worth it if he can work his way through this.)

Hongjoong spares him a glance with bloodshot eyes: lips opening to question the action, only to be lightly hushed. He resorts to focusing on the rhythm the boy taps out on his skin, and feels his jagged breathing even out.

“Joongie…?”

Clearing his throat quickly, he mumbles a small “yeah?”, not trusting his voice to go any louder in its fragile state.

“Do you care for me?”

“What?”

Seonghwa maintains the calm beat despite his suddenly constricting throat and prickling eyes.

“Do you care for me the way we know Youngjo cares for Seoho? In that way?”

“Why are you asking that?”

He feels the taps begin to go irregular and risks a glance at the other. Witnessing a pout, his heart aches suddenly, and he hurries to continue in fear of upsetting the other.

“Of- Of course. I do. You know that.”

“Will you say it?”

“H-Hwa, why? What’s the point in this-”

It’s breaking Seonghwa. Breaking him. Slowly.

He doesn’t snap this easily unless he’s worried. But this emotion is something similar to worry - something along the lines of desperation. Maybe it’s because he wishes for it so badly that it comes out so powerfully and so painfully obvious.

It just hurts. Badly.

“Why are you avoiding it so much, Joong? You’ll go on a rampage, risk everything, just because you’re worried about me but when it comes to saying “I love-”. “I care for you”, it’s suddenly difficult?”

Hongjoong winces at the slip up of words.

“But you know it’s different with us.”

“Why? Fucking, why! Why can’t you just love me like Youngjo loves Seoho? Why is it so hard to, Hongjoong? What’s stopping you, huh?”

He’s sure he must be hurting Seonghwa from how tightly he’s squeezing his hand, but continues nonetheless: lets it be his anchor to stop him from drifting away into something he can’t return from.

“God, Park Seonghwa, you know how much I feel for you. It’s just. What if I lose you? It hurts already right now as we are if I just let go and say it all- What’ll happen then?”

“Hongjoong, please. You won’t ever need to lose me, not if you give me this.”

It’s a dilemma he hates to face.

On the one hand, it’s tempting. But there’s always that creeping fear. Because he knows it: he cares for Seonghwa more than anything, more than he cares for himself or the whole company. It was always Seonghwa, Seonghwa, Seonghwa.

That was all he ever needed.

He wants to tell the boy how much he adores him, how much he- But-

“Think of it like this: if you never tell me, what if it becomes too late? We both know how dangerous this all is, but…” He huffs, “I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not hurting me anymore, Joong. I don’t want you to look at me like I’ve hung the stars when you won’t even accept your own feelings for me.”

Hongjoong frowns, and Seonghwa continues.

“So what if you lose me: would you rather lose me as we are right now or lose me knowing you’ve had the chance to love me?”

His pause tells Hongjoong that it’s a genuine question, not a rhetorical one. His throat tightens but he scavenges hurriedly and manages to find the courage to speak.

“I want to love you, Hwa.”

“Then, tell me you do.”

Fear. It’s ever so present.

To go against this logic he’s had for five years or to keep with it and risk losing Seonghwa needlessly. It’s a dilemma, and even though he knows the obvious choice, it’s still difficult.

But Seonghwa is looking at him with such a pure look - he looks so pretty. And it’s starting to become harder and harder to keep himself back when he wants this so badly, possibly even more than Seonghwa does.

It scares him immensely, but for Seonghwa he could brave it.

For Seonghwa he could brave anything.

Fingers raise from their place on his lap, and they creep delicately towards the boy’s cheek: brushing feather-light against the skin before attaching more firmly and rubbing gently upon bone.

He thinks Seonghwa gets where he’s going from how his eyes widen but feels encouraged when he simply shifts himself towards him, rather than backing off.

How pretty, he thinks to himself, smiling gently at the sight of boy’s slightly parted lips.

“Joong, please.”

He realises how laboriously slow he’s being and slides his fingers to the back of the boy’s neck, tilting his head slightly to the left because he knows Seonghwa generally moves to right (from observation of him and Youngjo- but that wasn’t now, or the point).

Seonghwa, tilts his head too and they’re moving towards each other; painfully close.

Hongjoong pauses as his lips brush against the other’s and hears the beginnings of a whine leave Seonghwa’s throat. Thinks its endearing, but continues with what he has planned.

“Hwa, I really do love you.”

His lips enunciate carefully against the boy’s, and he thinks he feels a stuttered breath against his lips before closing in, capturing plush pink against his mouth in a way that’s pleasant for the two parties involved, and moving at a managed pace.

Butterflies go crazy in his stomach, and he hopes the boy before him feels the same way. He thinks about how terribly soft he feels, and how uncharacteristic it would seem to the others around him if they were to know the inner workings of his mind the moment he’s currently embarking on.

They kiss smoothly and slowly, with gentle movements and faint touches.

It’s sweet, and unrushed (despite how Seonghwa grabs at his shirt desperately, prompting Hongjoong to hold it still as they continue the liplock). It’s warm and coaxing.

Hongjoong thinks it’s perfect: almost as perfect as the boy he shares it with, and relishes in allowing himself to enjoy the moment, somewhat regretting not accepting it before.

He thinks it’s perhaps the sweetest thing he’s tasted and smiles at the thought as he gasps for air against the other’s lips.

Hongjoong thinks he’d go to the ends of the universe for the boy, except, this time blissfully loving him.

If he knew letting go would be this relieving, he’s sure he would have done it years ago.

But that’s not the point.

Hongjoong thinks he loves Seonghwa, and he realises now that it’s okay - that he’d much rather love than never love at all. Thinks this moment in time is one he’ll treasure for an eternity and anticipates the many more moments that could come.

He really would go to the ends of the universe for Seonghwa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa thank you if you've read so far <3  
again, my twt is @/kkochiya if u wanna scream or anything aha  
if i end up writing the next chapter any time soon, it's gonna be our favourite boys (cough, seoho and youngjo)  
hopefully this isn't that bad? i tried really hard to perfect this, and most of the body writing was over two days as last time (with me procrastinating over starting it for the longest time, and fretting over making it perfect after finishing)
> 
> comments are appreciated!! kudos too, anything really <3  
thank you for reading, lovelies


	3. to resolve issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twit: @kkochiya
> 
> sorry this took ages!!! im going on holiday so the next part is only going be started in like three weeks which sucks :C i really love writing but i cant settle down for a few hours to actually get somewhere  
hopefully this chap is good enough!! i anticipated for it to only be 9k words but here we are with 17k :))
> 
> lil playlist!  
\- baby ride by luizy (woodz)  
\- luv bug by wassup rocker  
\- tunnel of love by haroinfather  
\- young by cai xukun  
\- greedy by ariana grande  
\- record me by kim donghan  
\- iriwa by pinkfantasy  
\- drip by jessi  
\- wannabe by golden child  
\- puzzle moon by gwsn  
\- love talk by wayv  
\- always forever by cults  
\- zigzag by oneus  
\- delcacomanie by mamamoo  
\- slow dive by a.c.e
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated <3  
if you wanna talk or anything hmu on twitter (or anything else, just comment for my socials)!!

Anxious fingers tap viciously at ice-cold metal, eliciting loud rumbles that aggravate the skin of the digits that create such sounds: harsh red blooming from a pale palette like blood split on stainless white snow - tainting it grimly.

A phone lays jammed between an awaiting ear and the curve of a shoulder, small murmurs coming from the device as the boy waits for louder voices to speak up. He internally curses those on the other end but, regardless, monitors intently for anything that should sound out, heart racing even though he desperately wills it to still - to give him a break for once and allow him to clearly think without the painful throbbing droning through his ears.

Seconds that feel like long minutes pass, before a loud shuffling (he assumes movement of the phone) sounds and he’s hearing a familiar female voice call out through the speaker of the slick device.

“Youngjo?”

“Ah, took you long enough.”

“Now’s not the time.”

An inaudible sigh leaves his lips as he slides the phone from its haphazard position, and stands up from his chair, shifting to gaze beyond the glass of the windows with a hand raking through tousled locks.

He has a suspicion on the content of this phone call that he’s received, and it’s the only reason Youngjo hasn’t promptly hung up and resumed with his work.

The news had said it all.

Breaking: Fugitive suspected to be deeply involved with Seoul’s largest gang convicted - court hearing date to be decided shortly.

Youngjo had seen the mugshots on the screen and understood at once what was wrong; anticipated the phone call to come sooner or later but didn’t exactly know what to expect from it. His heart had dropped like a high-speed roller coaster, except without the thrill and instead filled with the sense of creeping danger and the overarching fear of loss.

Unpleasant.

Alas, here, at this moment, he was, patiently waiting on the line with Yongsun who spoke as calmly as possible, detailing the events of the ordeal, and explaining what she required from him.

From him.

Youngjo felt himself stiffen immensely as the girl spoke: muscles contracting as he weighed up the plan presented for him, understanding the risks as best he could but sympathising with the concealed desperation bleeding through the girl’s voice.

He knew that emotion well.

Sitting down once more, he resumes the feverish tapping at metal.

“So, can you do it?”

His lips are moving to respond before the familiar sound of sliding doors sounds, and he’s watching a black (and accented red) mess of hair swoop into the room, a petite smile adorned that drops slightly at the sight before him.

It doesn’t deter him, however.

The boy briskly makes his way to him as he stares on, watching as he gently places himself upon his lap as though it were normal - perhaps it was, and Youngjo simply hadn’t noticed, far too caught up in stewing in-

“Youngjo?”

“Oh- Yes, I mean- I’ll have to ask…” He glances at the boy who is now resting a cheek against his shoulder, “Hongjoong. But I’m sure we can do it. Is there anything specific we would need to do when we get to her-”

“Just-” Silence, followed by the strong waver of a breaking voice, “Bring her home safely.”

Brows furrow, lips pursed.

“Alright. I’ll update you soon.”

Click.

The immense void opens up with bursting colour, dull words signifying the disconnection of the call before slipping back into the vast darkness and swiftly being discarded to the clutter of the desk it had first been picked up from.

Air escapes his lungs, chest falling slowly and rising with the next sharp intake of oxygen.

“What was that about?”

Youngjo seems to remember the boy atop him suddenly, glancing down to acknowledge him but ultimately looking off into the mid-distance with lips trapped between gnawing teeth, flushing red with irritation the longer it’s bothered.

How is he supposed to bring up the topic to Hongjoong? How is he ever going to begin to explain it?

It hurts his mind to think so heavily.

Something light and mildly moist is pressed against his neck, soft tissue skimmed against sensitive skin and eliciting a sharp shiver that snakes itself down his spine swiftly; successfully knocking a great amount of wind from aching lungs.

Indulge, something in the back of his mind prompts him, neck angling to allow more of the gentle peppered kisses to litter the expanse of skin: fluttering butterflies soaring in exhilaration at every soft press.

But fingers act logically and briskly push away the warm being, neck slowly falling back and eyes shifting downwards to the floor. Guilty feelings blossom, and he wants to welcome the boy back at once but tells himself it’s not the moment for it; the butterflies grow dormant at the lack of contact, returning sullenly.

“What’s wrong?”

The voice is soft and laced with what he wishes to be genuine concern.

A lot is wrong, he wants to confess.

“It’s nothing, Gunminnie.”

Eyes narrow and stare piercingly like a blinding spotlight, exposing and all-seeing.

Read like a book.

“You only call me that when you’re sad.”

Youngjo only recalls having had called him by his name some time ago - indeed, when he had been sad - but the striking realisation that Seoho had known exactly how he felt at the time makes him feel ever so vulnerable.

Seoho knows him too well.

Words weigh heavily on his tongue, willing to roll out and spill the variety of worries and concerns within the mind they’re formed by - almost do so without consent, but are quickly caught behind firmly shut lips.

‘You only call me what when you’re sad.’

He doesn’t know why it affects him so badly.

It must be the stress.

“Open up to me,” He prompts, “tell me what’s bothering you.”

He hesitates for a moment.

But as though the words he speaks are magic - enchanting - Youngjo opens his mouth and allows the words to slowly spill, burden slightly alleviated the more escapes; the more he allows the faucet of worries to flow.

It’s overwhelming how much he’s kept back.

Going and going, the words tumble seamlessly into the other’s ears, carefully deliberated. It feels good - letting go; sharing burdens (even though he knows he allows the boy to hear them because truly no one else can know).

Flowing: the words flow.

Until he’s decided the basin such worries fall into is far too full, and quickly pulls at the tap, shutting off the stream.

It’s frightening how pliant and obedient he is when it comes to the other; like putty, he lets himself be played with and meshed into shapes desired; able to be pulled apart but luckily is not - the player seems to be too kindhearted for such an act.

Too kindhearted.

Maybe Youngjo is just a sucker for a nice boy.

Seoho seemingly doesn’t comment on what he’s heard and instead fiddles fiercely with the fabric of Youngjo’s shirt, hardly registering the fact that the older has finished speaking considering his prolonged silence.

Unnerving.

“I’m sorry, was that too much?”

The boy pouts up at him (and if Youngjo feels his heart shattering into tiny pieces, he masks the pain well).

“Do you have to do it?”

“Break Wheein out?”

He hums.

That was the plan he had been told of, and the same one he had just detailed to the boy. Yongsun had unloaded a heavy burden onto the boy, but nevertheless, he’d be damned if he didn’t try to help out.

It’s a small jail - the one she’s currently being held in - and generally, the area surrounding it is empty at night, meaning there will be little disturbance if they’re to attack the place in the middle of the night. Guards are easy to dispose of, and it’s just a matter of storming the place and getting the girl out of there as quickly as possible.

It means killing police officers, and even risking being arrested too, but it’s a calculated risk being taken, and if past incidents have traumatised him, they’ve also helped him in realising the hazards of the mission and theorising how to deal with them.

Plus, only he and Hongjoong will be going. It’s safest because if anything, Youngjo will let Hongjoong escape, and there won’t be too many people to increase the risk of everything going to shit. Small units are best for quick missions; fewer people to account for.

But that’s just a precaution.

It will be okay, and he’s not quite sure why Seoho is even worrying about it.

“They’re part of our family too, Seoho. Of course, I do-”

“But Seonghwa-”

“We’re not telling him.”

Disgruntled.

Youngjo thinks that’s the best way to describe the expression on Seoho’s face (and most likely the emotion he’s feeling). It’s a stern look, with the boy’s pretty lips curved slightly downwards and brows gently furrowed; fingers furling and unfurling in what seems to be deep thought - eyes darting around as they focus on nothing in particular.

“Then I will.”

“What- Seoho, you can’t.”

“Then don’t go.”

Whiny.

It’s an endearing tone, coated with desperation and accompanied by a strategic pout. Youngjo thinks he melts a bit but quickly picks himself up from the blow.

Seoho is going to ruin this all if he doesn’t convince him.

“Love-” He sighs, pondering his words, and Seoho looks at him with a wavering frown, “Give me a good reason, and I won't, okay?”

“You’ll get hurt.”

“There’s always a chance, but does that stop any of us from going out on missions?”

A sigh.

Seoho seems troubled - that or he’s really thinking hard (and it’s somewhat odd, considering the boy’s such lighthearted nature).

It gets Youngjo thinking too.

Why on earth does the other care now?

It’s just because if he’s gone, then Seoho won’t have anyone to sleep with, right?

But that’s wrong - there’s always San (who is far too kind to everyone, but completely changes on duty) to keep him warm and busy - and it’s also something Seoho is probably not that bothered by anyways.

Plenty of clubs in the city: for a pretty boy like Seoho, it’s not too hard to get what he wants.

So, what is it?

Maybe just because he’s terribly nice. Far too nice to want to willingly send off Youngjo to something that could get him killed or arrested (and he’s unsure of which would be worse). It’s just his good nature.

Just his good nature.

“Well, I have no good reason, but I’m telling Seonghwa regardless. You’re not going.”

Youngjo feels the heat leave his body - literally (as Seoho hops off his lap) and figuratively. He’s watching Seoho storm off, and at once he stands, reaching out to lock his fingers on the boy’s soft wrist and holding it tightly; almost as though his life depends on it (and to be fair, it does).

The boy writhes in his grip, trying to shake off the hand, but it proves harder than expected, and he’s instead glowering at the older; head lowered and ears burning a red as Youngjo rubs circles with his thumb into the skin.

His brain seems to be catching up with his actions, and he’s now contemplating what to do now that he’s stopped the boy. But it’s quite obvious the other isn’t quite done with resisting.

Fingers quickly increase their grip as Seoho harshly tugs his wrist back.

It’s probably going to bruise, and Youngjo feels a twinge of guilt.

“Youngjo, let me go.”

He wouldn’t dare.

If it means Seoho running off to loudly expose the whole mission to Seonghwa, he’s sure as hell never letting go of the boy.

“Just- Don’t tell Seonghwa, please.”

“I’m going to start screaming now-”

Seoho’s lips part and at once Youngjo’s brain is scattered; a mess. He acts on impulse, and decides it to be for the best.

Youngjo tugs at the boy and leans in, smashing their lips together in a way that’s painful and messy - a clash of teeth at first - but successfully quietens the boy, and serves as a way of letting Youngjo ponder his next actions.

It’s terribly intoxicating every time he lets himself indulge in the boy’s lips; it’s a high he never wants to come down from. The way they simply slip into sync, like it’s second nature to engage in such a thing, and the way Seoho’s ever so pliant.

His heart hammers.

The kiss grows desperate and hungry, and soon he’s reluctantly gasping for oxygen (although kissing the boy is lovely, suffocating is not). Separating his lips from the boy’s, he admires the swell of the other’s lips and the pink of his flushed cheeks; the misty look of his eyes as he looks up. Youngjo almost lets go of the boy’s wrist to brush over his features but remembers the situation quickly enough to stop himself.

Seoho frowns up at him.

“What was that-”

“If you tell Seonghwa, that’s going to be the last time we-”

“And what?”

Youngjo’s heart drops.

“So you’re perfectly fine with me not-”

Seoho is nodding nonchalantly, and Youngjo swallows down the terrible ache that’s coming up.

It’s painful; terribly painful.

Nevertheless, regardless of his feelings, he needs to switch tactics.

“Then, you’re fine with me never touching you again? Never getting you off?”

Youngjo pauses to gauge the boy’s reaction, watching how his eyes widen slightly but quickly adjust to cover up his surprise. He thinks it’s adorable that he’s even trying because Youngjo knows - he knows for sure - that this is his weak spot.

His lips near the boy’s ear and he feels the way he stutters his breath against his neck, so obviously affected by the gentle brush of lips against his skin - like he had turned so suddenly sensitive to touch as though deprived of it (even though he knew for sure he had been spoiling the boy).

It’s almost intoxicating to think Seoho simply crumbles from his words, and the endorphins it brings for the older are like a high he could never get off from.

“Are you really sure you never want to have me inside you again, love?”

Husky: laced with lust and sin and everything ungodly (but when are they ever good and gracious? never), just the way the younger likes it - just the way it gets him going.

“Youngjo-”

Knees buckling, his ears are bright scarlet, and the way he rolls the name off his tongue is pure sin; a wanton moan more than anything, and it sends Youngjo’s blood rushing south more than it already had.

“Tell me.”

He’s shaking his head quickly, eyes avoiding the gaze that’s suddenly locked onto him as Youngjo returns to a safe distance from the boy.

“I won’t tell Seonghwa.” He mumbles, abashed.

It gives him a sense of pride: being able to make the other quite literally quiver at the gentlest touch. Makes him feel powerful - makes him feel like Seoho genuinely feels something from what they do together.

Ah, he’s thinking of that again.

But it’s been made somewhat apparent he’s not that interested in the more romantic side of things. 

Youngjo casts away the pestering thought.

“Such a good boy.” He coos; free hand reaching to stroke at the boy’s cheek that is slowly gaining a pink colour the longer Youngjo talks, indulging in the praise given.

His grip on the younger’s wrist is slowly letting up, and he’s releasing him slowly - still apprehensive (considering the fact Seoho could very well be acting and planning to run off the moment he’s free).

But it becomes obvious that Seoho doesn’t want such a thing to happen - for Youngjo to let go of him - as soon as he lets a high pitched sound akin to a moan rip out from his throat, and his eyes seem to gloss over even more.

Youngjo thinks it’s mildly amusing.

“Please-”

“What do you want, love?”

There’s a smirk on his lips, and it’s obvious from his voice alone.

“Have me; here.”

Youngjo finds himself immediately frowning slightly but covers it up quickly the moment he notices.

“Whatever my darling wants.”

At once, he’s hurrying to fulfil the boy’s request without qualms, sliding fingers under the boy’s loose-fitting shirt; finding where they belong - wrapped around his waist comfortably as per usual.

It steadily continues from there and before he knows it he’s giving Seoho exactly what he asks for, the sound of sin coating the walls of the room and rumbling through their ears melodically; urging on the act as a devil would urge on malicious acts.

He indulges the boy graciously: allows him to crumble in his arms over and over, and to exhaust his name endlessly like it’s a prayer. Youngjo gives him everything he’s desired and more; fills him with a feeling unlike any other and lets him fall apart at the seams.

It doesn’t half satisfy him as it did before, but he forces himself to keep on.

If Seoho enjoys it, he does too. If it makes the boy happy, it makes him happy too.

Plus, he indulges in the pretty sight of a sweat-drenched beauty before him: sprawled out just for him with red and black strands sticking to his forehead in a way that should be purely sinful but proves to be rather endearing - adorable. His cheeks remain coloured a bright red, and Youngjo revels in the sight; stares at his swollen lips stained with saliva and thinks it’s beautiful more than anything.

It’s okay, he can deal with just this.

Just being with Seoho is enough.

Youngjo makes sure the other is okay and well (“Was I too rough?” Met with a whine and a “You were fine, but you’re making me embarrassed.”) before fixing his appearance and heading out of the room swiftly; still patting down strewn hair and evening out his collar as he ambles down the corridor.

His head is dizzy, and everything is somewhat hazy; unclear. The boy is sure it’s because his emotions are so muddled (he was always one to feel very sentimental and overwhelmed by his own feelings) and tries his best to steady himself on the walk.

Collecting his thoughts, he breathes in deeply.

He needs to talk to Hongjoong.

-

The words spill effortlessly as soon as he starts (admittedly, it’s way easier than he had anticipated), and soon enough a moment of silence is held as the other mulls over the contents of what was said.

Youngjo holds his breath.

“I’ll come.”

He lets the sigh slip out from his lips.

It’s somewhat funny how simple the whole thing had turned out to be: just telling the boy and receiving a quick response without further commotion. 

All that fretting for nothing.

Youngjo almost thanks the boy in his overwhelming relief, but stops himself quickly, thinking it’ll seem too odd to suddenly do so and settles for nonchalantly nodding in agreement.

“And you won’t tell Seonghwa?”

Hongjoong’s lips curl into what seems to be a deep frown and it’s evident from the look of conflict in his eyes: he doesn’t want to lie. But it seems he’s willing to, just slightly hesitant.

After all, why would he really want to lie to the person he loves?

Hongjoong is soft like that, Youngjo has noticed. 

Far too soft if Seonghwa is concerned and Youngjo finds that he almost envies that. Thinks it’s silly that he should envy the boy for such a reason (if anything, wouldn’t it be jealousy over being able to show affection more consistently for the boy?) but knows for sure that’s how he feels.

He wants to be like that - is like that, but can’t show it.

That’s not the point, however.

“It’s important Seonghwa doesn’t find out, Hongjoong.”

“I know, I know. It’s just...”

He sighs.

Maybe it’s the scorching pain in his heart that’s making him lose his patience. Maybe it’s just an off day. The intense heat of a burning unrest within him is unbearable - that must be the reason. It’s just too much for one to take in one sitting, of course.

Youngjo doesn’t bother to ponder such things.

“You’re a criminal for fuck sake, Hongjoong, get over it. It’s just one thing to lie about, and it’s actually important, so can you just-”

Silence hangs in the air as the older struggles to find his words, grasping at thoughts aimlessly and watching despondently as they slip through hopeful fingers like sheer mist on cold winter days. He’s calming down, but that’s just his anger; the anxiety remains like a heavy burden - a resilient reminder.

Hongjoong looks at him incredulously.

He knows he’s stepped out of line and tells himself it’s the desperation doing such things to his mentality.

“You’re treading on thin fucking ice, Youngjo.” He breathes out, jaw evidently tightened as he deliberates over his next words, “But if you’re so bothered, then fine. I won’t tell Hwa, but you’re answering to him if he finds out.”

Youngjo grumbles a “yes” and they resume their meeting in a more civilised manner.

“When will we be setting out?”

“Sunday, one in the morning. Easiest time, and it’s relatively soon, wouldn’t you agree?”

The older hums in agreement, recalling the day of the week - Friday - and deciding Hongjoong is right (not that he would ever believe him to be incorrect in any case (a lie)). It’s ideal, and he’s more than willing to accept this plan.

“Then it’s decided. We’ll meet in the briefing room.”

He stands to leave, considering the conversation finished due to the finality of speech, and begins making his way to the steel doors he is fondly familiar with.

“Ah- And don’t forget to tell Seoho about this.” There’s a conceited smirk on the leader’s face, and it makes chills run down his spine, “I’m sure he’d love to know.”

Freezing, his fingers hover over the buttons that control the opening and closing of the doors, and Youngjo feels his heart sink in his chest. He doesn’t like the way Hongjoong is speaking; he despises it more than anything.

His response is grumbled out.

“He already knows.”

The steel slides open at once, and his figure is quickly retreating past the doors, fingers curled into cold palms that shiver with emotion that’s painfully processed; shocking jolts of sadness down his throat and behind his eyes.

-

San doesn’t like to get involved in the business of others (unless those others are, of course, his others in particular): it’s just not what he does. The personal lives and inner workings of the minds of those he works with is completely theirs, and he thinks it to be rather invasive to pry at those things in the first place.

But if his curiosity is piqued and his worry increased when Seoho seems drearily lifeless - something uncharacteristic of the boy - during their morning collection mission, then he doesn’t blame himself for it.

After all, they were somewhat close, he supposed.

Nevertheless, the fact such a bubbly and carefree boy had seemed so drained did not sit well with him (and even though San took this lifestyle as something more of a profession than fun and games, he would allow himself to worry for his co-workers, because after all, beyond that, they were family).

And so he approaches the boy as they load their bought guns into the van, quietly catching his attention with less than dramatic stage-whispers.

“Is everything alright? Pretty quiet today.”

Seoho nods and sends off a tight-lipped smile that San classifies as both eerie and unnerving.

The idea that the boy could very well have been faking his whole happy persona came to mind, and San hurried to push those thoughts aside. After all, who could pretend to be as stupidly happy as Seoho? That in itself would be a monumental achievement (by which he would simply need to applaud the boy for before force-feeding support down his throat).

Today must have been rough for the boy - at least, the start of the day, considering the very early hour. 

San empathises with the morose look on the olders face, and almost swaddles him into his arms for a warm embrace (beneficial to both of them, taking into account the chilling air), but fights off the instinct and instead focuses more heavily on quickly moving the cargo into the van so that they can return to headquarters.

It’s a fairly quick procedure, and soon enough the older of the two is driving them back, not so much as sparing a glance at the other the whole journey, leaving the vehicle unusually dull and sullen.

No matter how much he tries, his eyes trail over the boy’s slightly down-turned lips and glazed over eyes.

That wouldn’t do.

It’s a quick drive from their collection point to KQ, and soon they’ve arrived, with Seoho swiftly exiting the driver’s seat and heading to the back of the van to unload the arms.

San quickly trails after him, hand catching at the other’s wrist and pulling him close: arms wrapping tightly around the boy’s waist and holding on even as he writhed and thrashed.

“Shh, just relax.” He mumbles, “I think you need this.”

And so he did.

Seoho melted into the touch, breathing out a sigh, and San began to promptly brush his fingers against the boy’s skin in the hopes of calming his nerves. He had hoped for it to prove effective, but such things were unsure - Seoho never liked to delve into his actual emotions, and that proved for him and everyone else to be left out on his mind’s inner workings.

Then again, that was probably a good quality for his line of work anyways.

If he thought about it, it was rather rare that any of them saw each other acting serious - in work mode as he would call it. San generally knew these people as friendly faces and family members even though he knew them to be co-workers.

It’s just there was no need to keep up tough acts with each other; their secrets were all shared anyways, and Seoho was no exception to this - it was a well-known fact that he has a not so savoury lifestyle before RBW.

Hell, San doesn’t know how he lasted a day, nevertheless years (especially considering how badly Dongju had been affected from just a week of a lessened version of what Seoho endured).

It was sickening to think some gangs were just okay with forced prostitution - even child prostitution, knowing how young the other actually was at the time.

If San cuddled the older to his chest a bit more at the thought then neither of the two would make a comment on it.

Slowly (and slightly reluctantly) they depart from each other, and San actually makes an effort to do his job rather than letting the other pick up his slack. But there’s a small frown on the other’s lips and growing lines of worry on his forehead that the boy hates.

“Hey, cheer up!” He claps the boy on the back, juggling guns around in his less dominant hand, “Don’t need another Seonghwa on our hands, do we?”

The light joke summons a small chuckle from the other, and San tells himself it’s a job well-done. They proceed to collect the arms and begin to head to the weaponry to put them away, with the younger of the two offering to shoulder the other’s work.

(“It’s fine San, really-”, “You’re getting pretty old recently, wouldn’t wanna bust your hip carrying such heavy-” Met with a swift swat at his head that is narrowly missed and accompanied with squabbles but all in all, a reluctant agreement.)

Seoho leaves with a small smile lingering on his lips, and it makes San happy in turn.

As quickly as he can, he organises the pistols into their respective arrangements, scanning them for their markings and separating them accordingly, and moving onto the ammunition thereafter. It was a fairly easy job, but sometimes suppliers seemed to be a bit stingy with what they were willing to give for the money paid (generally met with begrudging agreement followed by Hongjoong’s gun-blazing wrath - some scary shit indeed).

San wouldn’t dream of arguing with his assigned job.

Sure, it got a bit boring, but Seonghwa made sure to send him on extermination and high-stake missions every now and then, reminding him that he was indeed valuable and prompting him to keep on. After all, everyone had a role and San, as all members, was a vital part of the team.

In any matter, he owed KQ anyways.

That was something he disliked to dwell on, however.

Soon enough all weapons had been dealt with and San was off, rolling up his sleeves and unbuttoning a couple of buttons on his shirt allowing himself to breathe a little easier. For the day, unless something dire came up, he was done, and that meant relaxation.

And boy, did San love his relaxation.

Thus, to the common room he went.

The famed common room was just that: a common room. It consisted of little parts of all of the members - assortments of drones for Yeosang, alongside some games; mini-fridge for Keonhee, Dongju and their overwhelming love for food; a small Roomba that Seonghwa had insisted in investing in; and a TV with seating arranged for everyone’s benefit. If anyone was to socialise outside of their quarters, it would be here, and generally, after big company gains, they’d celebrate here (although the room had also seen some tragic losses, and some hilarious incidents, namely The Bleaching but that was a story for another time).

And whilst San did love going out into the city, enjoying the powerful energy exuding from everywhere - negative or not, his habit to lounge about the common room often overcame this hunger for adventure.

Almost skipping down the hall, he swings through the entranceway of his destination, pausing slightly to rake his eyes over the scene taking place on his (unofficially claimed) couch.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

Yeosang flinches, quickly pushing off Wooyoung from his lips with a feigned indifference, the other’s cheeks lifting with a purely evil smirk as he licks at the corners of his mouth as though savouring the taste. It’s a funny sight if San thinks about it, and he’s smiling unconsciously after a moment of thought.

Despite the situation, Wooyoung’s fingers remain entangled in the boy’s bubblegum pink locks, carding through steadily.

“I see you’ve decided to join us!”

“You and Yeo seem to be getting busy-”

“Shut up!”

He laughs at the boy’s weak cry, and it sends Wooyoung into a fit of laughter soon after: his high pitched giggles even summoning a small smile from the quietest of the two, and soon enough they’re all doubled over.

It’s like this normally; playful banter, bouts of laughter, and a growing warmth in his chest as he spends more time around the two. He hasn’t been around as long as the others, but it feels nice to be wanted and adored. He hasn’t known the boys as long as they have known each other, and certainly doesn’t share their bond, but the fact they’ve grown so attached to him makes him happy - the fact they share this happiness sends him over the moon.

After all, that’s all he’s ever wanted and whilst happiness is very scarce in the life he finds himself leading, he thinks of himself as highly privileged to be so ecstatic with the two.

It’s heart-warming.

Hurrying over, he drops himself onto the soft material of the couch, feeling the seat dip with his weight and leaning to drape himself over Wooyoung as per usual.

He was always rather clingy, and it seemed Wooyoung enjoyed the attention.

Yeosang was slightly different, though.

“Get your shittily dyed hair off of my lap, I don’t need green all over my jeans.”

San never minded the boy’s slightly closed-off behaviour, and knew it wasn’t his business. Whatever happened before KQ was for him and Wooyoung to know, not for San or anyone else. They had their secrets and only the bare minimum had been shared (and although it sometimes made San slightly sombre to think he wasn’t let in on their secrets, he would never complain).

Yeosang liked to show his affection through slightly harsh comments and flustered declarations of adoration, and that was enough for San. Wooyoung showed it off with blunt actions and loud confessions, and that was enough for San.

He liked their dynamic; it was familiar and loving, and even if they didn’t bother to label it, it was more than okay for all three.

So when he laughs out an apology to Yeosang before running his mouth about his day, they all fall into a comfortable quiet (only broken by the occasional loud giggle from Wooyoung and the light off-hand remark from Yeosang), piled up atop each other in a way that was only natural.

Wooyoung’s fingers play with San’s in a way that’s comforting, and Yeosang (somewhat reluctantly) runs fingers through the other’s dyed locks as said boy fills the room with his endless stories and unlimited jokes.

-

The warm atmosphere somewhat shifts into a colder state of discomfort when San lets himself mention Seoho and his recent endeavours (the hug - mentioned the hug, and that apparently did not sit well).

“Seoho again?” The voice barks out in the form of a laugh (perhaps too sharply, revealing more emotion than intended), “Why don’t you just go ahead and make-out with him already.”

San pouts but the other doesn’t stop, and the hand in his hair pauses where it is, settling for nervously twirling a strand between a thumb and index.

Wooyoung continues and sneers, “I mean, you’re always on about him, it’s like you’ve got a crush on him.”

San frowns, and tells himself the boy is joking (maybe only half, he settles for), but can’t control the eyeroll that he gives. 

Wooyoung has always been… possessive. It’s just his personality, and it’s endearing at times but suffocating at others, and this instance would be that “others”.

There’s a reason, and he knows that. Yeosang insists that there is when he finds himself slightly confused by the other’s jealousy driven actions (“It’s something that happened to him, but you know that’s not my story to share.”) and San trusts him because why would he lie? But it doesn’t stop the acidic taste at the back of his tongue everytime he notices Wooyoung slightly clinging to him more than usual, or glaring at their friends behind his back because San has decided to get a little bit more friendly.

These moments make San upset.

Surely if Wooyoung is allowed to be possessive of him, he should be allowed to have that closeness and intimacy with the other: should be allowed to know of his past. It just feels slightly unfair that he’s constantly left out.

He should feel endeared about the boy’s jealousy, and even be able to dispell his worries with a “don’t worry, I’ll always like you more”, but that’s just not possible. If he’s not even allowed to know why the boy acts in such a way, he can’t possibly let himself accept it: that’s just not right.

After all, it’s been two years. He’s known them for two years, and that isn’t incredibly long, but in a life of crime, it’s practically a lifetime: they’ve lived through so much together.

And yet-

San tries to push the thoughts out of his head.

If he starts talking about Seoho more on purpose, then only Yeosang notices how he smirks at the jealousy on the other’s face, and ends up holding onto his hand in what he supposes to be support.

-

Something had woken him up abruptly, with his limbs moving to flail but being stopped by the bodies they had been entangled within, slowly bringing twitching muscles to a calmer state. His eyes blinked away sleep, and soon he was scanning through the darkness for danger, only settling down as his vision adjusted to the darkness and everything became clearer.

A small amount of light peaked out from the doorway and that was enough to send San slithering out from his dogpile, carefully tiptoeing around the two sleeping bodies (not before staring at Yeosang for a while and ensuring the boy was actually asleep).

As quietly as possible, he made his way out into the hallway, running fingers through his hair to even out the tumultuous waves of strewn strands. Apparently he had been the one falling asleep first, considering his clothing had been changed on the bottom half to some loose shorts, and his sleeves had been unrolled (probably Yeosang’s doing).

But that didn’t matter.

It seemed the light was coming from a single light turned on beside the briefing room, and the moment he had reached it, the door was opening. A quick look at the nearest clock told the boy that it was already midnight, nearing one in the morning, and to his knowledge, no missions had been cleared for the early morning.

So this was suspicious.

“If we want to arrive on time we should be-” The person before him had been speaking in hushed whispers, eyes trained behind themselves and into the room from whence they came, but as their head twirled around to where San stood, their voice slowly dissipated into a stunned silence.

“Youngjo?”

“San.” He hissed, dragging the boy into the room abruptly and shutting the door behind him once peering around for any other people.

The boy noticed a hint of worry in his shaking pupils.

“What are you doing here?”

Within the room, he spotted Hongjoong with his feet set neatly upon the recently cleaned table (Seonghwa would probably get mad about that if he found out), staring onwards at San with a piercing gaze that seemed to read him like an open book.

It’s not often that anyone actually gets to be in the same room as Hongjoong, and there’s a reason for that. He prefers to keep to himself, only letting in a select few people. San suspected there were some trust issues at play in that respect, but it wasn’t his business in any case.

Those eyes could reach into the inner depths of his soul, and it felt scarring to endure the whole process.

He felt rather vulnerable under this careful inspection and unexpected interrogation.

“I- I just woke up-”

“Why were you in the common room in the first place?” 

“Yeosang and Wooyoung are sleeping,” He remembers at once, “could you keep your voice down?”

Youngjo seemed to blanche at this information, voice instantly lowering.

“Could you explain?”

“We fell asleep there. But, why are you here without Seonghwa? Is he hurt again-”

“No! No- He’s fine it’s just this is a special mission.”

San narrowed his eyes.

“Then I’m sure Seonghwa knows, right? And you wouldn’t mind if I were to-”

“Look,” At once, the leader spoke, voice firm and unwavering, exuding an unyielding confidence and power that San almost thrived on, “This is none of your business but now that we’re here, I must ask that you do not talk about what you’ve just seen.”

The words came out instantaneously, and San found himself taken aback by his own attitude.

“And if I don’t agree?

A scoff.

“You know what I’ll do to you, San.” That gaze from before had returned, but with an emotion San felt himself gulping nervously at, “I don’t play nice when our Hwa isn’t here, understand?”

He respects Hongjoong, he really does, and it’s not out of fear (maybe it is - only partially). But the way he speaks is making San’s knees feel weak, because of course, he does know what happens when he crosses their leader (and if anything, he doesn’t want to live through that again). The man is terrifying when he wants to be; lovely and charming when he decides to be, but overall rather intimidating in his place of work.

They don’t follow him for no reason, after all.

So if San shuffles a little too evidently, hesitates a bit too much, displaying his anxiety, then he knows Hongjoong is eating it up; thrilled by his impact.

He steadies himself nevertheless - even straightens his posture more to make himself seem a little bit taller than usual to give his words the conviction he wants.

“I won’t tell as long as you let me in on what you’re doing.”

Youngjo shoots a glance at Hongjoong who just shrugs, hand motioning for him to continue and tell the boy, indifference evident.

So Youngjo spills, and San listens intently, face serious as the information is relayed and he begins to piece together all of the facts in relation to everything that has been happening, lips slightly parted in his realisations.

He glares at the taller after he finishes.

“So you’re the person making Seoho so sad?”

“What? No- How does that relate or concern you?”

San frowns, ponders explaining for a moment, but ultimately waves off the boy in his ever-growing fatigue, far too exhausted to bother with explaining (plus he’s sure it’s really not his place and doesn’t push at it).

“Just, be safe.” He sighs before turning his gaze to the other person in the room and smiling gently, “And, Hongjoong,” He addresses directly.

The leader looks at him with a quirked brow and San grins.

“Tell your boyfriend about this later, he deserves the truth.”

The beginnings of a smile tugs at the older’s lips (which he’s not sure if it’s because he’s said the big “boyfriend” or if his tone was just that amusing) and San makes his leave, going away with their secret and hurrying back to common room to hopefully make up for his disappearance and pretend like it had never occurred at all.

But it seems fate would not have it that way.

Feet padding against cold panels, he stops in his strides, eyes meeting the half-closed, unfocused gaze of none other than a sleepy Yeosang.

He mumbles a “shit” before quickly returning and settling down in front of the boy, fingers slipping on top of the boy’s slightly cold hands and rubbing at them gently.

“Where were you?”

His voice is groggy and laced with sleep in a way that’s far too adorable and endearing for San to brush off coldly. So he speaks sweetly but quietly, very much conscious of the sleeping boy mere centimetres beside them.

“Just walking around, Sang.” Fingers slip between his and they’re holding hands, with San thumbing at the boy’s knuckles soothingly, “Why are you up, hm?”

“Felt you leave.”

San smiles gently at the boy as he lets out a yawn.

How on earth is Yeosang here? He wonders to himself.

How is he of all people involved in crime like this? Because on duty Yeosang is a menace, but right now? He’s an absolute baby, and San lives for every moment of it.

How incredibly pure.

“Let’s go back to sleep then, okay?”

He nods slowly, and San brings himself to entangle his limbs with the two boys once more, bringing the boy’s head to rest on his chest as he settles atop Wooyoung’s arm gently. Slowly he rests a hand against Yeosang’s chest and lifts the other to his face.

Fingers brush against the elder’s birthmark: a smudge of pink at the corner of his eyes and a patch just above his cheekbones. The touch is gentle and San can feel the fast thrum of the other’s heart as he caresses his cheek and continues with his appreciation of the marks.

It’s pretty - really pretty - and never has San thought otherwise, going so far as to constantly remind the boy of the mark’s beauty when it began to bother him (“It’s kind of ugly if you think about it.”, “It’s beautiful, just like you, idiot.”) and somewhere along the way of admiring it, he finds himself drifting off into a more than pleasant slumber; succumbing to his already overwhelming fatigue.

Fingers slide down to the boy’s shirt and start curling in on the fabric as his breathing evens out, and everything begins slipping into a warm and enveloping darkness.

-

The benign night breeze presses gentle kisses against his cheeks as they speed through brightly lit streets, heading further and further from the commotion of city life.

Youngjo takes a moment to just observe and inhale the air; to look around with fresh eyes and to breathe with lighter lungs. It’s refreshing, and it calms him down even though his hands incessantly quiver with what he supposes to be anticipation and spikes of fear.

But that’s all cast away in his mind, because they’re pulling into their getaway spot, and Youngjo knows its time.

A finger goes to press at his ear and the small crackle sounds in his eardrums, signalling for him to begin speaking.

“Seo? You there?”

“Yeah, something wrong?”

He frowns at the boy’s bleeding attitude but brushes it off.

“Nothing, just checking.”

The line goes silent and he turns to Hongjoong who is already admiring something in his hands: thumbing over the object delicately as though it were fragile. It took a moment but the other noticed the eyes stuck on him and at once he handed over one of the objects within his possession.

A mask.

They both had one, and rarely was it used considering public heists were unusual, and most deals and missions were dealt with those in the crime world: those whose words were useless and would be unlikely to get out to people who would benefit from them anyway. It was perhaps a bit reckless to show their faces in the first place but truthfully, it didn’t matter.

KQ and RBW never liked to mess with larger threats anyways (and maybe that would soon change, but sure as hell, no one wished for it to).

Nevertheless, he was now slipping on the cold plastic-metal material, running fingers along the indentations and carvings of the item as he did so, admiring the craftsmanship and appreciating it as one would appreciate art.

It was a fine object after all: bespoke.

His reflection in the car window showed it all, and for a moment, Youngjo couldn’t help but rake his eyes over the piece.

Bejewelled around the eyes, with bendable ears pushed slightly - angled downwards - and cream coloured features: a raised nose, embossed whiskers, carved lips and painted and dazzled freckles dotting the white surface.

Youngjo supposed a bunny mask somewhat suited him: something more gentle but still mysterious and intriguing (plus, rather pretty, and if he were to go off of Seonghwa’s words alone, he would say that it matched him perfectly). And if anything, the material was light enough to be breathable and unbothersome, but heavy and thick enough to provide protection and the security of concealing his identity.

It felt grand to be wearing it again.

Glancing over, he spotted Hongjoong already loading his own pistol, beginning to slide on his silencer and check for any faults.

And of course, he had already slipped on his own mask: a customary KQ mask that had long gone out of commission but for some reason was still used by none other than the boy himself. It consisted of heavy leather that covered everything below his eyes, with metal chains crossing over from the corners and a thinner leather material wrapping around his ears to keep the mask on. But that was not it, of course not. A brimmed hat sat atop his mop of blond hair pulling the look together.

All in all, Youngjo thought Hongjoong looked delightfully intimidating with his look, especially with his long coat and heavy boots: much like an assassin (Hwanwoong would probably beg to differ, say the whole imposing and frightening assassin ideation was incorrect, but that wasn’t the point). If anyone wasn’t quivering in fear after catching a glimpse of him, Youngjo would be willing to take them into RBW in a heartbeat.

Snapping himself out of his thoughts, he fumbled for his own pistol, slipping the silencer on and checking the magazine for bullets and slotting it back into the gun after viewing the bullet-filled interior. A cock of the gun, and he was motioning for Hongjoong to leave with him.

He pulled at the door of the van, hopping out with as much grace as one could manage at such exhausting hours of the morning, and slid the door shut after hearing the quiet drop of Hongjoong’s boots against asphalt.

The small jail was in sight, and soon enough they were off, glancing around briefly to check for any pedestrians who may wish to call for help (but luckily enough, the area was fairly abandoned at the early hour).

If all went smoothly, they’d be done within the next fifteen minutes, returning Wheein home to her friends and then hurrying back to headquarters before anyone else noticed their unscheduled absence.

It could work out fine, Youngjo was sure.

A push at the buildings doors and the thin wood swung open, banging against the doorstop loudly and most likely alerting all inhabitants of their arrival. So much for a stealthy approach, Youngjo scoffed internally.

Eyes travelling the room, he spotted a figure, raising his gun to eyelevel for a moment and shooting off at the receptionist.

Blood splattered brightly against white brick, sliding down the paint-coated wall like running spray paint. A head had been blown open, and Youngjo told himself to not care about the life lost, merely moving on with Hongjoong following closely behind and branching off in another direction as soon as the need arised.

Two more met their demise before he heard screams, and it was then that he picked up the pace, fingers reaching to tap at his earpiece as he let out shots at the remaining officers and guards (two more after he had heard the shriek, with little droplets of blood splattering onto his mask considering how close the shots had been getting).

“Seo? Could you check street cameras for me?”

“On it.”

Another bullet struck a head and Youngjo finally found himself at the cell area of the jail, quickly scoping the perimeter for any incoming guards before swiftly walking in and scanning the darkness behind the iron bars for any signs of life.

A chuckle resonated from the darkness and the boy recognised it at once, smiling from behind his mask. They had found Wheein, and now all that was left was to find the keycard and get her out (which was a shame, because it would be so much easier if they still used the lock and key method).

“You know where they keep the card?”

“Fuck if I know, Ravn.”

He let out a snort, before turning to loop back and begin rummaging through clothing for their key out of there.

His earpiece crackled, the familiar voice resonating through his ears.

“Streets are clear, but you should hurry.”

“Thanks, Seo.”

Fingers reached out to feel through the first corpse’s clothing, hands searching pockets and feeling at thin uniforms for anything ressembling a card like structure. He came out empty-handed, but that was okay: there were many other bodies to search.

Only there was one small problem.

The gun being waved in his face.

“Get on your fucking knees, hands behind your head.”

It seemed the voice wavered in what he knew to be fear, and it made it slightly hard to take the quivering officer before him seriously.

Nevertheless, his fingers curled in on the handle of his pistol, cautious of his movements as he stared down the barrel of the gun. Even if he wanted to try his hand at shooting the woman before him first, it was almost certain he’d be dead where he stood with a lovely bullet hole in his forehead (and God, Seonghwa would never stop cursing him for that, even post-mortem).

“I said on your knees, asshole!”

How is he going to get out of this shit?

His gaze drifts to the safety of the gun and spots that it is indeed turned off, and the gun is ready to kill. There’s no certainty of whether the weapon is loaded, but considering the circumstances, he’d much rather assume it had bullets ready to bury themselves into his body at any given moment.

Faint footsteps patter through the hall, and the woman before him takes a moment to side-eye whatever is approaching. Youngjo smirks at the moment of distraction, raising his gun slightly.

Absentmindedly, however, his eyes glance behind the woman and before he knows it, blood is splattering over his mask and leaning close to leaking onto his cheeks (narrowly avoided by a quick wipe of the substance).

The body drops to the floor with a thud, and at once he steps back, avoiding being covered with more of the metallic scented liquid than needed.

Hongjoong slips his pistol into a holster before swiping a card through the cell’s scanner and watching as the light goes from an unsure amber to a successful green, sliding the metal open. Youngjo can only watch as the other extends a hand for Wheein to take, leading her out as soon as her palm meets his.

“M’lady.”

It’s somewhat ridiculous how he tips his head at the girl as though greeting a partner at a dance, but Youngjo watches how she reciprocates with a grin, letting her hand fall from the other’s soon after and opting to shove the same hand into a pocket.

“Shall we go, boys?”

Youngjo kicks lightly at the head that has rolled onto his foot before mumbling a “yes”, and grimacing at the blood that spurts out onto his dress shoes.

They begin filing out, stepping over corpses as though they were nothing more than obstacles and he supposed that somehow they were that: just obstacles. Thinking of them that way was best anyways, because it rid of the guilt that came from taking a life (and in a way, he supposed they had served as blockages to Wheein being with her family and quite frankly, that was unacceptable).

Hongjoong fires off another round as he notices the faint twitch of a corpse that shouldn’t be moving, and kicks at the wrist of the newly deceased.

A phone screen blinks at him with the number one typed into a phone dial.

Crushed beneath a heavy boot at once, with a scoff as he trudges onwards.

It’s only when they’re at the door that Youngjo suddenly remembers the cameras that litter the perimeter, and shifts his gaze upwards to the red blinking lights.

What a grand sight this must be, he marvels.

The boy waves at the light and looks into the lens of the camera for a moment before hurrying off and catching up with the two that had gone ahead, somewhat satisfied with his little show (perhaps that would make it into the news! What joy!).

Stepping into the van, Hongjoong slipped into the driver’s seat and revved the engine, speeding off at once without waiting for the two to settle down. He assumed this was for the best considering the faint sound of sirens in the distance that could prove bothersome.

Only when they’re a good mile from the station does Hongjoong rip off his mask and throw it to the back, hat accompanying the article. Youngjo follows suit and discards his rabbit mask (not before examining the slowly drying crimson and crinkling a nose at it).

“A little blood getting to you, darling?”

Youngjo whips his head up at Wheein and furrows his brow. He’s not sure if he wants to be disrespectful to the girl, considering the number of kills she’s currently sitting on, and the amount of money she holds. If she really wanted to, Youngjo could become yet another figure on one of her lists, although he liked to think the other actually favoured him.

“Ruined the mask.”

“At least it’s not your face, right?”

He shrugged, and watched the girl smile to herself before turning back to gaze at the passing scenery with a cheek pressed against the glass.

It made him wonder what it must have felt like to be arrested like that - as Wheein had been. Because sure, Youngjo had gotten into trouble as a teen with some petty theft (okay, maybe not petty theft, and sometimes assault but that was irrelevant) and had known the back of stores very well, as well as some local stations, but actually being arrested and possibly prosecuted: that was something he never wanted to experience.

But the idea did bring back some memories, and Youngjo felt his heartbeat increase in pace at the thoughts springing to mind.

-

Words swirling through the air; foul and acrid, leaving a bitter taste that makes him screw up his face in disgust.

The boy before him speaks vile words, and he’s at a breaking point, ready to snap at any given moment like a branch under immense pressure from a fool sitting atop it. It can and will give out, but the matter is time.

It seems little time is needed, however; the fuse is lit and the explosive is set off with a bang.

“Your sister was a good fuck too, acts like such a slut for me, begging for it-”

A fist comes swinging at bone, knuckles blooming a sickly red as they connect with skin and hit with a violent force, sure to leave injury and certain to come with consequences.

It’s at the wrong time and in the wrong place, and he’s sure that the middle of classroom is not the place to start a fight but here he is, and once the first blow lands, he’s up and going to throw more punches. There are screams of horror around but it’s all droning and slipping past uncaring ears. After all, the murderous hammering of adrenaline-fueled blood flow is vibrating through his eardrums, numbing him to outside factors.

His knuckles bleed from where they hit - a blossoming flower of his rage - and it’s a sloppy mess of pain and anger as he straddles the body below him and swings at eyes, nose, lips, until it’s a canvas of scarlet ink pooling down slopes of flesh.

A masterpiece, he admires, before being jerked away by the arm and thrown to the side.

His back sinks down a wall, and slowly the perpetual thrum stills and his vision clears of that red-tinted quality, bringing everything into focus. Someone is screaming at him, scolding his outburst, but all he can think of is the striking image of the boy he had been attacking being dragged away as a bloody pulp with eyes forcefully and painfully closed shut.

Youngjo mimics the boy, and presses his eyelids shut too. He believes it will calm him, and maybe it does, but the itch at his skin to harm the other more does not go away for a long time: almost like a craving.

Only the blood upon his knuckles becomes satisfactory.

He supposes everything becomes a blur thereafter, and its only the following afternoon that he’s finally coming out of his trance and seeing everything clearly; processing what’s before him. And in that moment, he wishes he had not.

Shrieks bounce around his head, pounding in his mind and admonishing him as though he is a child - and he is, but it’s in a moment like this that he hates being treated like one.

His parents aren’t there to defend him. They never have been. There in law, but absent in parenting, leaving him to his own devices and sentencing him to his own crimes without any protection or insurance in place. Youngjo supposes that’s simply how life works, and doesn’t dwell on it.

After all, he doesn’t know anything besides this.

The boy’s parents spew words such as “pressing charges”, and “court”, but he pays them no mind and lifts himself from the seat he’s been forced into.

Calls try and summon him back, but he’s ignoring them in favour of escaping the building that’s now proving suffocating. He wants to go home, hug his sister, and forget the fact he has almost killed a boy for her. He wants to forget it all: everything.

But the world outside of the hospital he tries to escape from has other plans for him.

He wonders for a moment what he has done to deserve this treatment. What he has done to be left bleeding in an alleyway: stabbed in the abdomen with a blunt knife and kicked in the gut as though worthless.

It dawns on him, however, that some part of him deserves this. That part that almost killed a boy - that part of him that’s a monster.

Breathing out, he tries to forget the pain and remembers how lovely it is to hug his sister. He wants to remember that warmth, even if it means he stays in the state he’s in and never gets to experience that warm and soothing feeling again. If that’s how he is to go, then he thinks it’s okay.

Maybe it’s deserved.

But again, the world has different plans for him, as per usual.

Whenever Youngjo wishes for something, it’s odd how it never happens - how the opposite usually ensues. Maybe the universe has a vendetta, and simply thrives off of causing him pain, or perhaps he truly does deserve it. Pehaps a past life had murdered a nation, and he curses that idea vehemently.

Although, maybe, just maybe, he’s somewhat thankful for what the universe brings.

As his vision is becoming spotted with black, and his breathing is growing weak, it’s almost as though an angel appears: blond hair as a halo and pretty face beaming, just as he had imagined it. Fluffy white wings aren’t in sight, but he’s sure they’re somewhere, because someone that radiant couldn’t possibly be mortal - definitely not. After all, what kind of human could glow so brightly?

He heaves out a cough, feeling the spill of blood from the wound and winces because, despite it all, it still hurts.

“Love, please look at me. Keep those eyes open, okay? There’s my boy.”

Youngjo blinks sleepily but lets himself stare up at the angel once more, obeying his commands and focusing on admiring the sight before him. He wonders if, after all of this suffering, he’s been blessed with something so beautiful to cast him off to his final resting place.

Fingers are being pressed against his wound, and he’s hissing with pain until the angel hushes him gently as a mother would her baby. It’s rather soft, and he relaxes through the pain because it seems to make the heavenly being before him smile (and by God, he’s falling for that pretty smile).

The faint sound of sirens comes into earshot, and his eyelids are growing heavy.

“Eyes on me, baby- That’s it.”

Youngjo tries to look down at the fingers tugging his chin up but opts for staring into the eyes before him, smiling slightly (and perhaps it’s the loss of blood, but he feels somewhat happy in that moment: just staring at the other).

“What’s making you smile, love?”

Those sirens are getting louder, and soon he’s hearing running footsteps gaining in volume. The small smile remains on his lips as he stares up at the angelic entity and finally replies to the sweet words spoken as though his words are the product of his last breath on earth.

“You’re beautiful.”

The angel releases him from his grip and he’s feeling an entirely different set of arms around him, hoisting him onto something cold and firm. All about him is loud but it’s fading into an angry drone that he can’t decipher anymore.

Is this death? Youngjo can’t tell.

He wants to look up and search for his angel; wants to get up and find him, but stops in his efforts as the gentle touch returns and he’s suddenly at peace.

The angel looks down at him, and places something rubbery around his nose and lips that makes him breathe in deeply. It makes the other smile, and he continues in favour of keeping those lips curled in happiness.

“Keep breathing, darling, in and out-”

A conflicting voice interrupts his angel’s words and he feels slightly disappointed as the beautifully lulling sound stops.

“What’s your relation to him?”

“He’s my boyfriend.”

The angel lies casually, and Youngjo furrows his brows.

Aren’t angels supposed to be morally righteous? Perhaps he’s been stereotyping them this whole time, because there’s no way the being before him is anything short of angelic.

“Your name and his?”

“Gunmin, and,” The angel looks down at him again, and he blinks slowly, feeling the rubbery material being removed from his face, soft fingers brushing against his cheek as they do so, “tell him your name, baby.”

His voice is so incredibly weak in the moment he speaks, and it comes out as more of a breath but he’s sure his angel understands the small “Youngjo.” he lets out.

Once more the rubber is placed onto his face, and soon he’s letting his eyes shut, ingraining the image of his angel into his mind as he relaxes.

Fingers brush at his cheeks and rake through his hair, words from his angel tumbling into his ears and keeping him conscious as he clings to them for support.

Gunmin, he wonders.

Even the angel’s name is beautiful.

-

A loud beep brings him back to his senses, and his eyes quickly flitter towards the gaze pinned on him: questioning and full of worry.

Youngjo notices Wheein’s absence and almost asks, but realises he must have not noticed the girl leaving, especially considering the fact they are now parked within the garage of KQ’s hidden sector with the familiar thrum of an active engine having ceased.

Hongjoong clicks his tongue.

“Something got you thinking?”

A quick shake of his head, both to deny and to clear his thoughts.

“Just tired,” He evades, “it’s rather late.”

The younger doesn’t push for answers and instead steps out of the vehicle, prompting Youngjo to follow suit, hopping out and slamming the door shut behind himself. Perhaps it's with a bit too much force because Hongjoong eyes him carefully before locking the doors and heading out.

Youngjo wrings his fingers together as he leaves, clicking his back in a series of pops to try and alleviate whatever pressure has fallen upon him.

They walk into the briefing room in a solemn silence, Hongjoong going ahead and settling down in a chair before Youngjo is even within the room. However he’s met with a surprise as he enters, breath knocked out from his lungs instantaneously.

At once Youngjo is met with arms wrapped around his neck and a warm body pressed flush against his chest, a nose rubbing at his collarbone and fingers dancing at his nape. The force of the other sent him stumbling slightly, but he steadied his footing to accommodate for the extra weight, allowing his hands to fly to the small of the other’s back.

A sudden giggle slips from his lips as he admires the younger.

“What’s this, hm?”

He looks down at the mess of black and red hair and feels the boy mumble against his skin but the sound doesn’t reach his ears: far too muffled.

“Pardon?”

“Missed you.”

“Oh-” He freezes and wills himself to relax before the boy can notice, “Really?”

Seoho nods against him, and Youngjo lets a small smile encapsulate his lips. His pupils shift to meet eyes with Hongjoong who also has the corners of his lips curled up (but promptly puts on a neutral face upon being caught).

“I’ll write the report, you two can go.”

Youngjo opens his mouth to refute but Hongjoong gives him a stern stare, and he’s pressing his lips together at once and sending off a grateful smile.

Seoho refuses to remove his face from the boy’s collarbone, and so he pulls him from his being and slides a hand into the younger’s; interlacing fingers. A pout forms on his lips.

“Darling, we need to go now, okay?”

“But-”

An index finger presses at the boy’s plush lips and Youngjo moves to lift his chin with a thumb once he has been silenced. The other gulps and stares up at him, to which he smiles gently and lets go.

“Come on, we’ll go to my room.”

He supposes that’s a little bit suggestive in itself, but nevertheless finds himself pulling along the boy who just seems rather out of it, smiling to himself as he remembers the fingers on the back of his hand (and if he swipes a thumb over the boy’s knuckles just to appreciate the lovely feeling, then that’s for him to know alone).

His angel always makes him so incredibly giddy.

-

They topple onto plush fabric, with Youngjo atop the boy and gazing down with a softening expression the longer he watches the boy scan his features with bright eyes. 

So innocent, he thinks to himself, and allows fingers to graze the skin below his eyes with a feather-light touch.

His eyes flutter shut, and Youngjo wonders what he’s thinking in that moment. Maybe it’s actually pure: maybe he does love him romantically rather than with lust. It’s consuming, but that’s all he can hope for. 

He wants soft touches, sweet kisses, and gentle nights of unadulterated adoration; He craves it.

But what’s the use in one-sided love?

The tender kisses he presses against the boy’s lips say it all: they reveal him wholly and make him vulnerable for what he is - for being utterly in love with the boy he unravels himself for. It’s his silent way of saying the words he’s too frightened to utter in fear of the known response, and it’s as much as he allows to let off.

But the small pecks grow hungrier: filled with lust. He’s coming at the boy with as much vivaciousness that he can muster despite his conflicting desires, and is not at all suprised to see it reciprocated in the boy’s less than gentle licks into his own mouth.

Hot and passionate as opposed to what Youngjo wishes was warm and sweet. But ultimately that doesn’t matter anymore.

His hands linger at the boy’s waist and soon enough his fingers crawl up inside the loosely fitting fabric of his shirt; dancing at the supple skin that tightens and relaxes rhythmically at his precise contact.

At the same time, he’s trying to shrug off his jacket, hands momentarily leaving the boy to rid of the layer and discard it to a far corner of the room. It’s at this moment that he almost confirms what’s coming next and part of him thrives in the excitement pooling in his own stomach, but another part falls victim to the deepening ache in his heart.

Seoho tilts his head to the side, however, and Youngjo begins working at his neck: forgetting all of the chest pains in favour of soaking up the younger’s string of pretty sounds of pure want. He enjoys how desperate the boy gets and likes to think that only he makes him so vulnerable like this (even prays for it to be so).

It seems the younger is eager to reciprocate and at the first brush lower than Youngjo’s belt, he’s letting out a guttural groan that is well received. At once he tugs at the younger’s hair but freezes up at the small yelp that escapes his throat.

Youngjo presses an apologetic kiss at the boy’s cheekbone, mumbling a “sorry” and looking up to catch his eye.

For a moment, he feels smaller than the boy he’s hovering over, and the only reason for such a thing is the inexplicable emotion in the younger’s eyes that makes him want to crumble up and sob - it’s something that makes his heart flutter and he wills it to stop at once, but at the same time wishes for it to stay an eternity.

His lips meet Seoho’s once more, breathing out an airy “Gunmin” between kisses as he pushes away the overflowing sea of emotions in his mind.

Tonight he didn’t need to break down, because it was okay.

This is more than enough.

-

“Where did you go last night?”

“Woo, it was nothing, forget it.”

San curses Yeosang in this moment; curses the boy and his truthful nature (because whilst it’s endearing, it has gotten him into quite a situation). He even curses Youngjo for his meddling that then caused him to wake up and witness said meddling.

It was a stupid thing to curse and repeatedly damn to hell, but regardless, San did it all.

A huff escaped Wooyoung’s lips at the lack of explanation, seeming to be revving up to begin loudly complaining but after deliberation, instead slumping into his seat and pouting. It was a powerful move on his part, and executed with purpose.

Once more, San cursed everything and anything, because as always, he’s crumbling and being shaped to fit Wooyoung’s needs; sauntering over to pepper kisses all over the boy’s cheeks as silent apologies, and also so that the boy will smile (which he does, and even laughs, which San declares a win in his books).

That’s not the end of it, though, for he’s pouting (again!) and San mimics the look.

There’s just no winning with him.

“What’s wrong now?”

Wooyoung remains quiet.

“What can I do to make it up to you, Woo?”

And finally, the boy perks up, smiling devilishly at the older (and San begins scorning his very existence because so much as suggesting “making it up” to the boy was suicide).

“Do me a favour."

Brow quirked, he urges him on.

“Shoot.”

“Ah, but I don’t know what I want now,” He smiles sweetly and bats his eyelashes disgustingly (not really - San thinks it's endearing but pretends he doesn’t), “can I save it for later?”

A long sigh escapes his lips but he nods reluctantly and runs a hand through the boy’s hair, eliciting a loud shout of what San assumes to be triumph before the boy is shooting off to pester Yeosang.

What a loud kid, he whines to himself, eyes following the bouncy boy’s movements as he dances across the room to a resting body.

An eyelid slowly opens, only to promptly shut with the owner’s lips releasing an exaggerated sigh. San knew what was coming next - didn’t even need to anticipate the-

“Woo, I love you but shut the fuck up, would you?”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“That’s the point.”

-

Youngjo finds himself raising a fist at the thick material of room 110, heart thrumming with anticipation and badly concealed fear that presented itself in quivering appendages. Breath caught in his throat, he tries to encourage himself to knock but simply flounders for a moment: reconsidering.

He thinks it to be rather shameful: having to seek help from people two and five years younger than him, all because he’s at a loss. But he knows he won’t be mocked; knows it will be good for him. If anything, he needs this rather than wants it.

This whole situation has dragged on too long.

Knuckles tap at the door in a quick succession and he’s soon pushing it open, head peaking in swiftly. Eyes meet his and he smiles at the sight before him.

Dongju pushes at the other’s chest, but Gunhak keeps his arm wrapped around his shoulder, other hand resting on the boy’s thigh with a phone grasped lightly between two fingers, the screen black and inactive. The younger resorts to giving up in his struggle to get away from the other under foreign eyes, and simply slumps down back into Gunhak’s side.

“May I come in?”

A nod, and he’s sliding in, shutting the door shut behind him with a gentle click as his back presses against it.

Getting in was hard enough, now addressing his areas of concern had to be overcome. Youngjo scolded himself, realising it would be rather hard to own up to his own feelings to anyone especially when he denied it even to himself.

How on earth-

“Is it about Seoho?”

Dongju’s voice is quiet and meagre, somewhat tentative which is rather rare from the boy (unless, of course, he’s talking to someone like Hongjoong). It’s unfamiliar but Youngjo absolutely crumbles.

“Yeah,” His head hangs despondently, “it is.”

Gunhak beckons the boy over with a hand motion, and the older obeys, moving to sit himself down at the foot of the bed so that he’s across from the two. At once, under the heavy gazes, he begins picking at threads on his sleeves, trying to avoid the confrontation he’s walked himself directly into.

He supposes the silence is his fault; that they’re simply waiting for him to be comfortable enough to speak. And sure, he’s thankful, but it’s unusual to feel so young and fragile, like a child - god, he feels like a teenager again.

It’s okay though, because whilst he’s actually seeking aid from a teenager and someone just fresh from his teen years, it’s okay (and admittedly, Dongju is rather wise despite his childish acts) - they’ll help him, they’re his family.

“I love Seoho.”

“And this is… a problem?”

Lips become entrapped between teeth as he looks up at Gunhak, releasing his vicious hold of the now aggravated skin to frown.

“It’s not what he wants.”

Dongju shoots Gunhak a look, which prompts Gunhak to shoot Youngjo a look. All in all, Youngjo is being heavily scrutinised, and regret is slowly kicking in.

“Why do you keep fucking him then?”

“Dongju!” Gunhak scolds.

“It’s true!”

He’s sure his face is aflame - definitely knows it is. Scarlet and scorching hot as he presses his palms against the skin in an attempt to both conceal it’s blooming red colour and calm it down to its normal tone.

How blunt, he mourns.

Muffled, he makes an effort to respond.

“I’m stupid, that’s why.”

A palm makes its way to rest on the boy’s knee and he drops his shoulders in defeat.

“It’s okay, Hyung, you’re not stupid, you’re just in love.”

Dongju and his occasional respect - god, Youngjo doesn’t know why it’s getting to him so much. His eyes sting and he’s nodding rather than replying with words because it’s suddenly hard to bring those syllables out from his throat.

He feels the hand on his knee rub at the skin as a form of comfort and remembers to release the tension in his shoulders, relaxing every time he realises he’s become tight and sensitive again.

“You know, if you want to change anything about your situation, you should just tell him how you feel.”

Eyes darting, he looks at Gunhak with an expression of pure amazement and shock. How on earth is that a good idea? It baffles him how he says it as though it is common fact, when Youngjo practically tears himself apart bi-daily over the issue. He’s almost about to snap, and curses himself for being so damn sentimental and sensitive about the issue.

“How can I? I already know what will hap-” His voice rasps out; weak and strained.

“He’s whipped on you, idiot, just tell him!”

Dongju and his bluntness makes a comeback, and Youngjo winces.

“Whilst Dongju says these things wrong,” Gunhak starts, shooting a stern look at the petulant boy, “he’s right with what he means. If anything, this will relieve your burden, and chances are, he’ll reciprocate. Just… Give it a shot, yeah?”

His lip curls into a pout as he ponders the words of the boy, finally deciding that it’s what he needs to urge him on: the little push he needed to get himself there. Gunhak is right - if anything, it will make him feel better.

“I think… I will. Thank you both.”

Dongju beams up at him, and he can’t hold back the smile that takes over his lips as a result.

“No problem, Hyung!”

Fingers reach to ruffle the youngest’s hair, receiving a low hiss in response that makes him quickly retract his hand. Youngjo rolls his eyes and watches as Gunhak manages to thread his fingers through the boy’s hair without hassle or fuss (which to put lightly, is a miracle).

The room falls silent and Youngjo takes it as his cue to get going: slinking off of the bed and twisting at the door handle swiftly.

“Oh, and Youngjo?”

His head whips around, foot out of the door halting where it’s placed.

Gunhak’s face is slightly pink, with Dongju prodding his fingers into his side in a way that suggests he’s encouraging him to do something. If anything, it makes Youngjo’s heart drop in worry (because, honestly, if it’s Dongju’s doing it’s probably something disastrous).

But the words that leave Gunhak’s lips are soft and tentative, and Youngjo’s heart warms instantaneously.

“Love you,” His eyes meet the older’s, “Hyu- Youngjo.”

It’s something Youngjo usually does: tells the younger kids that he loves them, because of course, he does, but it also is nice to remind them. For Seoho, he does not (and perhaps that’s a tad suspicious, but he can’t bring himself to), but everyone else has received their fair share of “I love you”s from the boy.

He chuckles, stepping out the room with a casually thrown “I love you too” and shutting the door gently behind himself before hearing any response.

Motivated, he knows what he plans on doing. But that’s for when the time is right, and suddenly bringing up the matter to the boy in question is not something Youngjo finds suitable.

Patience is a virtue, he tells himself like a mantra in a futile attempt at calming his anxiety.

-

“So how did the mission go?”

San catches the older as he makes his way to his office, having visited the floor to utilise the rarely used kitchen facilities (rarely used because generally no one could be bothered to venture to the higher floors for the purpose of making waffles, but then again, San always was somewhat unconventional in his decisions).

It startles Youngjo, to say the least, and he pulls the younger into a subsidiary corridor in fear of his voice travelling down the hallway and possibly being picked up on by anyone else. It’s somewhat a silly worry because who else would be walking around on the floor?

Nevertheless, he took the precaution.

“It went…” Youngjo’s mind flickers to his incident for a moment but the memory is quickly shoved aside, “fine. Wheein is home and safe, and we weren’t hurt.”

“Are you sure it was that simple?”

The older sighs, and San stares at him expectingly, silently urging him on. Of course, the boy would notice his hesitation: he was incredibly good at reading emotion, and that was what made him such a good empath (something handy but also occasionally frustrating).

“There was an accident with someone holding a gun at me, but Hongjoong managed to shoot them before anything escalated.”

“Did anyone else see you?”

“I doubt it, and if they did, we wore masks.”

San’s eyes widen slightly.

“Masks?”

“Yes, why?”

The boy clears his throat quickly, seemingly composing himself before playing off his moment of surprise with a lighter tone.

“Let me guess, Hongjoong wore his old KQ get up, right?”

San barks out a laugh that’s wholly unnatural and it shows starkly like a sore thumb, “Wonder why he never gets rid of that old thing, y’know?”

Youngjo raises a brow but decides to brush past the topic; if the boy is acting so strangely about it, he assumes that it’s best left alone rather than pryed - after all, KQ’s affairs are theirs, and RBW’s affairs are his, and the history is less than relevant.

Although, he does recall some sort of incident-

That doesn’t really concern him though, especially not now.

“Yeah,” He trails uncertainly, “but regardless, the mission went well if that’s all you wanted to ask.”

“Oh- Of course, thanks. I’ll… get going now.”

He nods at the boy who rapidly turns the corner, head of green disappearing swiftly. Youngjo removes himself from the corridor and witnesses the younger hurrying down the hall with large steps before he’s completely gone from sight, having made the last turn to reach the elevator shaft.

Remembering his whereabouts and original purpose, he returns to making his way to his office; eyes glancing around to ensure no witnesses had listened in on their conversation (and although it was not necessarily that terrible, the consequences of the details of the mission getting out to certain people would be rather hard to come back from).

Deciding the coast was clear, Youngjo punched in the passcode to his office, sighing out as a form of release.

God forbid Seonghwa found out.

-

A pitter patter sounds at the door of Hongjoong’s office: like rain on the sill of a window in the late hours of night - light but prettily droning. The cold steel served for a good percussion for the gentle raps, turning them into lullabies through the thick material; a melody rather entrancing that had been long forgotten.

When had been the last time someone knocked at his door?

A rather long time, he presumed, quickly lifting himself up to answer the ceaseless tapping after snapping himself out of the trance he had slipped into at the soothing sound of the knocking. Perhaps he was tired because surely such a response to the simple occurrence of a visitor should not have sent him into deep thought.

Maybe a nap would be good, he decided, pressing at the codes to open the thick frame of steel before staring in anticipation at the sliding doors.

Brows furrowed, he looked the figure up and down before opening his mouth to question the appearance, only to be hushed and pushed further back into the room. Fingers that silence him at his lips drop at once and slide down to encapsulate his wrists. 

The doors shut of their own accord once both bodies have gotten past it.

Hongjoong is pushed down into one of the swivellling seats at his desk before he attempts to speak once more, pouting evidently at the unexplained treatment.

“What’s wrong, Hwa?”

Arms crossed, the older looks down at him from where he stands, lip trapped between sharp teeth that gnaw at the flesh in a way that Hongjoong can only assume to be nervousness (although he doesn’t understand why).

“Can you tell me more about your mission?”

At once his blood runs cold, eyes flickering from the boy’s eyes to beyond him as he tries to collect his thoughts to present them in a way that’s not wholly pathetic.

It dawns upon him that Seonghwa knows, and that he doesn’t know how, but nevertheless, the moment has come without him even initiating it. Part of him blames San, but he’s learned to keep his short temper at bay in such situations and doesn’t immediately blow up in favour of cursing said boy.

(But then again, only four people knew and- Hongjoong tries his best to push past those bothersome thoughts.)

Is Seonghwa upset, however? It’s unclear.

“Joong?”

“Oh, uh- Well, what do you want to know?”

“Why wasn’t I involved?”

He gulps and Seonghwa’s gaze shifts to his neck at the action as if already anticipating it.

“Hwa, we just went to break Wheein out it isn’t-”

“Why was I not involved, Hongjoong?”

“Because!” His voice comes across harsh, desperate, and raw and he winces at the sound, quickly settling down and bowing his head shamefully.

More often than not, he just snaps: lets whatever emotion he’s been building up escape in a loud shout that he soon regrets (because he knows that Seonghwa doesn’t deserve it; deserves better than that).

Guilt bubbles up in his throat, and his words escape weakly.

“You would never agree to something that could go wrong so easily like that.”

Fingers lift his chin up, and he’s forced to meet eyes with the taller whose gaze is telling but cryptic at the same time so that it’s virtually impossible for Hongjoong to decode it.

He wants to apologise at once: not just for his tone, but for not telling the boy. However, Seonghwa seems to want to say something, and he’s both curious and nervous.

A flurry of rushing butterflies rumble through his stomach and up his oesophagus as the other’s gaze softens, and his lips curl delightfully like blooming roses in the summer: red with liveliness, lovely with their gentleness - a mix of contrasts that coexist flawlessly. He wants to capture the look in his mind; to save it as a memory that will never fade with time, something ageless.

It’s so incredibly endearing that he forgets that he’s expecting to be scolding; forgets to breathe in favour of careful admiration of the occurrence.

“Did Wheein get home safely?”

The boy’s fingers brush at the strands of hair at his forehead, making a deal of twirling the locks and slipping them to the side as the pads of his fingers brush at the skin beneath.

“Yeah, she did.” Hongjoong smiles gently as though reminiscing, “Hyejin even hugged me when we brought her there.”

A hum vibrates through Seonghwa’s throat and Hongjoong takes another moment to admire the boy before he’s being pulled against the boy’s lower chest, with fingers wrapping around his nape and curling around the locks of hair. He lets out a small noise of surprise before there are digits carding through his hair pleasantly and an arm is wrapped around his shoulders.

Seonghwa was always affectionate, even with him. It just had never registered to him previously, and now more than ever - with their newly found relations - the boy took the liberty of cuddling the leader close, threading through his hair, or pressing light kisses upon his skin.

He supposed this was forgiveness, and let his lungs release all of the oxygen accumulated unknowingly.

“Joongie?”

“Mm?”

Seonghwa detaches himself from the boy, allowing his hands to drop with his body as he lowers himself into a kneeling position before the other, fingers resting on Hongjoong’s knees as he now found himself looking up at the boy’s face rather than down.

Cheeks lightly dusted with a more colourful tone, he purses his lips and whispers as though sharing a secret only meant for two (and admittedly, it is).

“I love you.”

The butterflies attack his heart this time, and his eyes remain trained on the boy’s cheeks, his eyes, and his lips, analysing the features and admiring them like art as he finds himself doing often.

He thinks he’ll never get over this: the lovely thrill of those words.

“I love you too, Hwa.”

His fingers make their way to rest on the boy’s own, slipping between them and interlocking. A light squeeze is given at the other’s hand, eliciting a small smile that Hongjoong reciprocates with a grin.

He’s a fool for him.

-

As always, Seoho is the most frequent visitor of Youngjo’s quarters, finding himself within the older’s room more than his own. It’s not unusual, and for sure Youngjo doesn’t mind him, but now it’s making his heart quiver with the words he’s frightened to allow escape his lips.

What if it’s all for ruin?

Not even the most challenging mission could send him into a spiral this deep.

The words leave his lips by pure chance, having echoed in his mind endlessly to the point where they simply slipped out just a breath escaped one’s lungs: effortlessly and absentmindedly.

“What do you think of me?”

A snort comes from the boy and Youngjo trails his eyes over the boy’s sprawled out figure: legs covered in areas by thin blankets but ultimately failing at concealing the expanse of fair skin on his thighs. Fingers that once held on tightly to the hardback covers of a book now released their grasp and allowed the item to drop onto the matress with a bounce.

“I think you’re bored if you’re asking that.”

He frowns.

“I meant-”

“But if you’re really curious, I think you’re…” The boy thinks for a moment, humming as he does before grinning, “Pretty! That’s what you call yourself isn’t it?”

“Gunmin…”

A look of concern replaces the carefree smile on the younger’s face as he hears the name being used, turning to face Youngjo and flinching at the watery gaze. It comes as a surprise and he pushes away at the blankets and his book in favour of propping himself up to look at the boy better.

Before either of them knows it, a tear trails down Youngjo’s face and Seoho hurries to place his fingers on the boy’s cheeks, wiping gently at the liquid.

Youngjo lowers his gaze, only to be brought back up and met with the soft press of lips to his cheekbones (something he vaguely remembers doing in the past, and the idea alone makes him feel fuzzy).

“Love, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

A sob escapes his lips from the voice alone, and Seoho wipes at the tears with more urgency, caressing his cheeks in an attempt at calming him. Proving futile, he racks his brain for ideas, heart thudding vehemently the longer he hears the pitiful sniffles from the other.

It’s somewhat impulsively decided, but he pulls the elder’s eyelids down gently with quivering fingers and presses brief kisses on the skin of each: pulling back and smiling assuringly at the halt of tears.

Tentatively, he presses for answers again.

“Can you talk to me now, darling?”

Hiccups disrupt the quiet, and Seoho almost lets out a chuckle at the sound. He tries to wait a moment for Youngjo’s irregular breathing to even out, but frowns slightly at the prolonged disruption.

Feeling at the boy’s wrist, Seoho’s fingers rest upon the boy’s pulse and feel at it for a moment before timing gentle taps at his inner wrist that match the beat.

That’s their thing, he supposes. Something that calms them both down, and he’s not quite sure when they even started it (he is - he remembers the day well) but for a while, it’s been theirs.

Youngjo’s breathing luckily does return to its normal pace, and it brings a smile to the younger’s lips as the terribly stuttered breaths are no more. His tapping at the boy’s wrist ceases and he settles for placing his hand over Youngjo’s one (which he notes to be rather cold and thumbs at to generate some sort of warmth).

Once more, he asks the boy to talk in the softest tone he can muster.

“Baby, please, tell me what’s wrong.”

A sniffle and the boy looks at him in the eyes with an almost defeated look.

“You, Seoho- You... You’re the problem.”

His face is the epitome of panic and worry in the moment the words leave his lips: heart dropping at once and temperature running cold as he tries to wrap his head around the words.

“Wh- What? What do you mea-”

“I just… I want to kiss you so much it hurts and I…”

“But you can do that anytime, love.” His brows furrow as he speaks.

“I love you and I want to kiss you like I love you, Gunmin.” Youngjo cringes at how his voice breaks with fragility, throat burning painfully, “And I’m so sorry I let myself do this to us.”

The loose grip on his hand becomes non-existent; fingers sliding off and settling for fisting at the sheets. Seoho’s head drops and Youngjo takes his turn in looking at the boy with worry (half for himself, half for the boy).

It all came out wrong, and he’s sure the boy isn’t taking it well.

“I’m so sorry-”

Fingers halt the movement of his lips, skin brushing against skin for a moment before they halt in their action and press together.

An audible breath is taken: inhale and exhale. Strained - it sounds strained, but not forced, just tense and barely there.

“It’s okay- to love me, I mean.”

“You don’t need to-”

“It’s my fault more than anything, Youngjo.” His gaze meets said boy’s eyes, piercing through his heart the more he lets words fall from his lips, “I let you fall in love with me, and I guess I was selfish in that.”

“You mean?”

Seoho smiles bashfully and Youngjo’s eyes widen slightly in intrigue and surprise.

The thrum of his heartbeat becomes an overwhelming force, shaking his mind with the tenacity of the thuds against an aching ribcage. 

“I guess I enjoyed you loving me, y’know? But I didn’t know how to tell you when... when I-”

He pauses, mouth open and poised to say more, but ultimately falling silent as though the words bubble up but remain unable to slip through. Youngjo pities him, and slides his fingers over the younger’s hand to give it a small squeeze of comfort.

How quickly the tables turn, he muses.

Seoho catches his eye, and sends off a defeated look that makes his heart clench at once.

“I’m sorry I just can’t-”

“It’s okay, angel.” Youngjo mumbles, reaching out to card fingers through the younger’s dyed locks, “It’s fine if you can’t say the words.”

A smile catches at the boy’s lips, and Youngjo reciprocates it with his own. He finds that he quite likes the feeling of the younger’s hair between his fingers - the warmth it spreads in his stomach when he begins leaning into the touch: accepting.

It’s okay, this is more than okay (and in fact, it’s more than he’s ever anticipated).

“May I kiss you?”

How gentle, Youngjo coos to himself, the tone used by the other incredibly light and airy, almost as though he were winded or caught off guard. Perhaps it's both in actuality, but he doesn’t care too much for specifics.

All he knows is that he’s nodding, and at once a tentative press of lips is felt against his temple: careful and precise in the movement, like any inaccuracies would be unacceptable - perfection was required.

He quite likes this - quite being an understatement, and like being a tad bit short from the truth. The gentleness of touches that should have come before rather than after, but nevertheless, had finally arrived. Something warm and sensitive about the deliberation of each action, like all was precious and invaluable.

Seoho glances at his face to gauge his reaction, and Youngjo flashes a grin that makes the younger involuntarily chuckle (or rather, giggle, considering the light and high pitched nature of the laughter).

“Is it fine if I call you mine?”

There’s a forlorn look in his eyes as he hears the question being raised: something misty and unclear in his eyes. But it’s evident enough that there’s a warm quality to the gaze - something sweet and unadulterated.

He’s just so… awestruck.

A timid curl at the corner of his lips, eyes gleaming, he squeezes at the younger’s hands once more and enunciates his words deliberately, sure that they cannot be misunderstood.

“I’ve been yours from the first day we met, angel.”

Seoho pulls at the boy for a quick embrace that turns out to last longer than anticipated, with the boy clinging to him desperately, as though he would disappear otherwise. Fingers play at the hairs on the back of his neck briefly before trailing down the beginning of his spine and remaining there: slinking up and down rhythmically.

Wrapping his arms around his waist, Youngjo lets himself bury his face into the younger’s neck and exhale shakily, releasing whatever had been rattling at his heart and allowing a pleasant spread of something saccharine to coat his emotions. A weight lifts off from his lungs and allows him to breathe for the first time without it seeming like he’s being crushed beneath gelid ocean waves; buried under deep emotion toil.

“May I keep you safe?”

“You always have, Gunmin.”

“And it’s okay if it takes me a while to say what I want?”

Youngjo smiles into the crook of his neck: sure that the boy can feel the curl of his lips.

“I’d wait an eternity for you, love. You’re what keeps me going, always have been.”

Seoho lets laughter escape his lips, shaking his head at the boy’s words and pulling away for a moment to peak at his face (or rather to admire, the light hue of pink upon his cheeks giving him away in the act the moment he noticed a coy smile: instantly flustering).

Cheeks high from powerful smiles, he giggles out his words.

“When did you get so cheesy?”

A growl and a light push at the younger’s chest that he dramatically recoils from.

“Shut up and let me love you, idiot.”

“Whatever makes my darling happy.”

If Youngjo were to say his heart was hammering furiously in his chest, it would be a lie. For in the moment, it felt as though the rampant thrum of blood rushing through his chest had ceased in favour of granting a pleasant quiet in his body: to allow him to enjoy the moment.

Smiles fixed like a painting, the two would stare at each other as though the moment were endless: something to bask in perpetually - to cherish indefinitely.

Even if it would be hard to slip into the habit of not dancing around blatant emotions, it was certain that whatever needed resolving had been worked through.

(And if Youngjo found himself bashfully thanking Gunhak and Dongju the next day with a curious Seoho tagging along, then he didn’t blame their beaming smiles and teasing words, instead settling for admiring the boy he could call his for once with a sense of pride.)

-

“We’re still gonna fuck though, right?”

“Gunmin!”

“Hey! You can’t blame me, you’re really goo-”

Not once has he scorned the boy’s existence more; ears a furious red as he hushed the boy’s flow of embarrassing words with a clamped hand around his mouth (that he soon licked, prompting Youngjo to remove his hand at once).

“So?”

Youngjo presses hands to his cheeks and looks away from Seoho who stares at him expectantly.

“Yes,” He mumbles meekly, “We’ll do that.”

(God, was he going to regret this.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!!!  
next chap will be our troublesome trio and that'll be very fun to both plot and write  
hopefully i did our boys justice with this (because i really enjoyed writing it)  
soRRY FOR THE LIGHT SIN I DID NOT ENJOY WRITING THAT BUT ITS FOR THE PLOT  
stay tuned for more!! (well in a months time :C)
> 
> twit: @kkochiya


	4. to trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew!! took me ages but here it is~  
twitter: @kkochiya
> 
> playlist!!  
\- REVEAL by The Boyz  
\- So What by LOONA  
\- Babydoll by Dominic Fike  
\- asphyxia by Co Shu Nie  
\- You And Me Together by LOONA 1/3  
\- NOAH by HAON  
\- Queen by History  
\- Luhvin It by Villain  
\- Sucker by Jonas Brothers  
\- Water by Sik-K  
\- Come See Me by AOA  
\- Say My Name by ANS  
\- Vibrato by Stellar  
\- Horizon by ATEEZ  
\- Numb by CIX  
\- Very Good by Block B  
\- Lion by (G)I-DLE  
\- iffy by Jay Park  
\- Dun Dun by Everglow  
\- Kiss Later by Yeojin (LOONA)  
\- Psycho by Red Velvet  
\- favOriTe by LOONA

Tempered ticks resonate from the time-telling device overhead: mad in its quest of being heard and thus deeply embedding its noise into the boy’s mind. It’s somewhat lulling and yet jarring at the same time. It makes him sleepy and yet anxious simultaneously, keeping his eyes drooping but his mind thrumming.

Nevertheless, he hates it.

Plum coloured bruises bloom and blossom at the curves of relaxed knuckles; their harsh tones reminders of the events leading to their eventual appearance. Skin raw in places, it makes for a less than lovely painting that he simply cannot avoid smiling at.

It’s not cruel to be amused, he tells himself, especially if the reason they have come about is just. If anything, it’s simply the drunkard’s fault for pushing past his boundaries.

(Although, upon further thought, it may be partially his fault for allowing the other to swing his arm back and bash his knuckles against drooped cheekbones relentlessly in an effort of getting (what he supposes to be) revenge.).

Thoughts floating, he ponders if the impact had managed to knock the man out and simply the idea bubbles a callous snicker that he bites back, subduing to a gentle smirk. His change of demeanour is picked up upon quickly by the owner of the tarnished knuckles who catches his gaze and meets his eye.

Gently and with much amusement, lips move around syllables and a question is lightly proposed.

“Thinking of last night?”

He nods promptly and indulges in the laughter that escapes the other’s lips, high-pitched notes not scraping against ears but instead enchanting them.

Catalysing his irritation. Eyes drift to glare at the machine before being suddenly drawn to the loud click of an opening door followed by succinct clicks of heels against plain flooring. Another distraction, but this time wholly captivating.

The meeting has begun once again.

His eyes look up the tall figure of none other than Park Seonghwa, dressed in not particularly grand attire: formal but definitely not as over the top as he has witnessed the older to be dressed (undoubtedly the product of the apple of said boy’s eye).

Hands push at the door he walks through, holding at the entrance with medium pressure to keep it open long enough for the next person to walk in. Another set of footsteps sounds after Seonghwa’s has halted in place and the stern yet charming features of Kim Hongjoong come into his vision. Papers are clenched firmly in his grasp alongside pens.

Unlike Seonghwa, he does not stop in his movement right by the door and proceeds to the end of the room, taking his seat in one of the swivelling leather chairs opposite the two already within the room. His acquired parchment is spread across the expanse of the table, pen set in front of the seat beside him as he raises his gaze upwards and towards the place he entered from. Attentive, he watches as another person walks in.

Although, it does seem odd that one more person should attend the meeting.

Moments later, none other than the lively figure of Choi San makes his entrance, eyes less excited than usual and instead pinned on the floor as though nervous. He takes a seat swiftly besides Wooyoung and doesn’t dare to spare a glance at the faces in the room.

Seonghwa finally lets the door swing back shut as it aches to do, retreating to the seat beside Hongjoong and settling down; the pen set out finds itself comfortably between his thumb and index, poised to write as if it were second nature.

A careful silence hangs in the air before Seonghwa allows his eyes to flicker up to the gaze of the boy beside him, piercing and urging.

Hongjoong clears his throat.

“San will be the dispatcher for you two, Wooyoung and Yeosang.”

Yeosang’s eyes widen in shock, vocal cords straining as they strongly desire to produce what his mind wishes: questions, endless questions. But his leader is speaking, and to interrupt him is to disrespect authority (and Yeosang only likes doing that with the enemy).

“He has the permission to interfere with your mission if you’re found in danger or if the cover is blown. All throughout, you’ll take orders from him.”

“Is that completely wise?”

“Superior’s orders.”

“_Why!_”

Two voices break out in the same instance, drawing sharp gazes towards each other in what feels like a silent duel. The word loses its purpose of questioning as the tone screams demand. Yeosang’s blood, although having run cold not only moments prior, seems to grow desperately hot as his heart picks up in speed at the suddenly arisen tension.

The leader’s eyes find Yeosang’s, and he purses his lips, parting them to explain but directing it at him as opposed to those who prompted the explanation. He supposes it’s because Hongjoong finds that he would be more likely to listen, and gives his full attention in support.

“Wooyoung and Yeosang know each other like the back of their hands, and San is able to keep a level head in quick thinking situations.” Hongjoong turns to address the other two, “So I don’t want to hear any complaining.”

San casts his eyes elsewhere and settles down despite being slightly unhappy with the arrangement, whereas Wooyoung lets out an upset grunt.

“Will San be in any danger?”

Hongjoong shrugs, “Only if he needs to be.”

The boy falls quiet, reflecting. Yeosang can practically hear the cogs in his mind turning - or maybe that’s just the still ongoing ticking that lurks behind him on the wall. If he was armed right now, he may have even shot the damn thing out of annoyance, but he instead busies himself with more useful thoughts.

Seonghwa wets his lips uncomfortably, observing the silence and shuffling his papers. His lips press together briefly before he clears his throat and presses on.

“You’ll be joining a group of street-racers. A mafia of sorts. They owe everyone and anyone money, but if you’re bothered about getting it back…” He trails off, searching through his papers before finding a shiny material that seems to be a photograph and throws it to the middle of the table, “You’d soon find yourself dead or missing.”

The photograph depicts a scene of a bloated corpse within a slowly rusting car halfway pulled out of what looks to be a lake: a hole visible in the side of what vaguely looks like a forehead. A seatbelt is still on the body and the passenger seat is empty.

Yeosang shudders at the sight, but its soon pulled away and tucked back into Seonghwa’s pile of papers.

“This mission is incredibly high stakes, and the likeliness of death is high. But it must be done despite the risks.” Seonghwa sighs audibly, “KQ has been contracted by a number of groups to take out the group and the consequences of ignoring these requests would be a large majority of Korea being our enemies.”

Time is allowed for the process of information. Yeosang painfully waits for it to pass, fingernails digging dully into the skin of his palms, marking but not harming.

“Do you understand the risks?”

Yeosang nods and the sound of San replying with a meek “yes” is loud in his ears. There’s one response missing, however. He turns to look at Wooyoung who keeps his eyes drawn to the table, and presses his elbow against the boy’s arm to snap him out of his trance.

A small hum of agreement sounds from him and that seems to be enough for all parties involved.

Seonghwa’s pen moves to paper and Hongjoong begins to speak once more, questioning beginning for what he calls “identity creation”. It feels endless, and the questions seem to not relate to anything at all, but Yeosang trusts the boy wouldn’t waste time for his own curiosity, especially not in front of Seonghwa.

It lasts around two hours, and the meeting is dismissed with Seonghwa organizing his papers and storing his pens.

A quiet hand on the small of Seonghwa’s back doesn’t go unnoticed, not by Yeosang at least, and he spares a glance at Hongjoong who seems to be quietly discussing something with said boy, the older of the two slightly bent to catch the words.

Piercing gaze spectating the moment Yeosang stops analysing him, he manages to catch sight of Wooyoung reaching out to grab onto San’s wrist as they leave, only to be halted by Yeosang pulling the perpetrating hand back. Seonghwa finds himself intrigued in the situation but the door falls shut behind them before he can see anything else.

Before he’s able to so much as look at the boy beside him, there are words spoken that make his heart rumble ecstatically, much like a summer thunderstorm, with the lightning flashes appearing as glittering adoration in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t want to let you go either.” He pauses gently, “You’re too precious to me to get hurt.”

The corners of his lips tug up at once, and he casts a look at Hongjoong and meets his own shimmering eyes of affection. Fingers trail the corners of papers absent-mindedly as he feels his cheeks lift with his smile.

“Endearing, darling,” Seonghwa muses, “But you know that if I had to do this instead of them, you’d need to let me go.”

Disgruntled. Hongjoong dislikes the idea and seems about to disagree. Seonghwa rolls his eyes and reaches to hold onto clenched fists, relaxing and caressing them gently.

“I love you but it’s the truth.”

A scoff from the boy and Seonghwa finds himself indulging in the lovely rose shade that coats his cheeks from the declaration. He thinks he won’t get over that from the usually so stern leader.

Fingers slip into his own and entangle so naturally he almost misses how loudly his heart hammers. It seems to strike him that this dynamic is a recent development and it sends the thudding into a rabid frenzy.

He takes time to admire Hongjoong, pushing aside his sympathizing with the others for a moment just to stare for a while longer.

-

Yeosang leaves Wooyoung to his own room, only letting go of his hand when he slipped into his quarters sullenly, having had lost trust in his capability of controlling his feelings when he again tried to reach out to San, just with his other hand. From then, Wooyoung was forced to stay by his side.

As soon as the door shut with a click, he found himself jogging to catch up with said boy, slowing down to a walk once beside San. They don’t talk for a moment but Yeosang opens his mouth to speak, only to be unable to proceed with words.

Sighs escape into the air.

“Yeo, please leave me alone.”

The pace by which San had been walking increases and Yeosang is pushing himself in front of San in a split-second thereafter.

“We need to talk.”

“I want to be alone, _please_, Yeo."

He holds eye contact with San, stern expression unwavering. After a few moments of waiting, the boy gives up and shakes his head.

“What is it, then?”

“I’m really glad I’m with Wooyoung and not you.”

His face turns into something sour, and Yeosang hurries to clarify, fingers reaching out to hold onto the boy’s arm gently, grip loose and unsure.

“It means you’re safe- not in danger- and I’m sure Wooyoung realised that today.”

“But it also means you guys are at risk and I’ll have to sit in a- I don’t know, hotel room? Just listening in as you get fucking- I guess, killed? Doing absolutely nothing!”

“There are risks but just think about it,” Yeosang grins, voice lowering, “How cool would it be to take out a section of the mafia?”

San rubs at his arms and chuckles despite his obvious distress, “Yeah, it would be pretty damn cool.”

“One hell of a story, huh?”

“Fuck yeah, it would.”

Laughter dissipates into silence as quickly as it had bubbled, and Yeosang finds himself conscious of the boy’s breathing: slightly deeper than usual, and it’s a small signpost of San’s ever-present nervousness.

His thumb rubs at the skin of San’s arm in comforting little circles.

“If you ever need to talk- I mean, I know I’m not Wooyoung and it’s not the same but… I’m here for you. Besides, I’ve always wanted to get closer to you.”

The thudding in his ears feels closer than ever.

Yeosang allows his hand to lose contact with the other and swiftly retreats down the hall before he’s capable of regretting his confession. He hopes that San feels comforted or at least feels slightly better than before, and heads for the elevator with these thoughts swimming around his mind, pestering him.

-

Summer breezes accent the deep warmth of the season with cooling winds, making the night slightly more chilled than the day and giving a sense of safety and comfort.

The lack of sunshine is replaced with an emulated version of the sun’s scalding rays - dazzling lights shining brightly and ubiquitously, perhaps slightly obnoxiously, but nevertheless, they’re not taken for granted. Like little fairies they fly around frantically, their flickers like the gleam of magic dust: enchanting.

Rushing cars create a monotone droning that slowly seems entrancing+ and lulling. He almost misses the usual footsteps and only notices the figure approaching from behind once there are feet right by his side, and a body setting itself down in a sitting position on the ledge.

“I thought you wouldn’t come again tonight.”

A small exhale of air is the meagre response at first, but more seems to follow after a moment’s hesitation.

“I’ve been busy.”

His eyes flicker to the face of the other, scanning how eyelids shut so delicately and wispy hair strands of a particular shade of blonde waver over the taut skin. Skin is pinched at the forehead, between eyebrows, but aside from that nothing else is amiss.

Words feel distant for a moment as he watches: purely observes.

“What’s troubling you?”

The beginnings of a tired laugh.

“What isn’t?”

Feet swing haphazardly over the edge of the building, and he witnesses the few breaths of air in and out: laboriously slow and perhaps as a means of calming.

“Is it the mission?”

There’s a nod.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The eyes of the other open and he watches as the pain shows clear as day on previously unreadable features, eyes slightly teary and glossy, brows turned down. Scratches of nails at the concrete show nervousness and an attempt at distraction before yet another breath is blown out, this time with much more effort, as if something is coating the other’s lungs - something like thick tar, weighing it down.

He waits; he doesn’t press for a response.

A feeble voice speaks broken words.

“I’m scared.”

Stilling, he pauses for a moment to ponder if the person before him is truly who he believes it to be, head tilting slightly in inquisition before he can even notice it.

“Why is that?”

“I guess… I think I’m going to die.”

His lips purse for a moment in thought, deliberating over words before he allows them out into the open where they can be critically judged.

“Aren’t you in danger of dying every day?” He presses, tapping idly against the material below him, “Why is it different now?”

The other shrugs, fingers dancing erratically on the cold building.

“Something about it makes my stomach churn.”

Looking off to the city once more, he notices how the lights seem to be dimmed slightly: twinkling as though it’s a chore rather than for the beauty of it. He considers them to mimic the other in his despondency and figures it to be rather cruel at another glance.

“Then we just have to hope you’ll come back safe, right?”

Silently the other nods, wiping at dry eyes as if anticipating tears that never manage to arrive. Perhaps that too is somewhat cruel: even in his sombre mood, a release of tears is not allowed.

A throat is cleared.

“Right- You’re… Right.”

Feet swing more vivaciously off of the edge, and his fingers lurk near the other’s hand in caution. It seems they’re even conscious of it, slightly recoiling and returning out of hesitancy.

The lights feel terribly consuming tonight.

-

Faint shuffling of light, wispy materials against heavier, more solid garments sounds from the far corner of the brightly lit room - so brightly lit in fact that it seemed almost as though the waves of light bounced playfully and perhaps obnoxiously against the sugary pink walls. Opulent, he noted, and definitely not his scene.

But being within the four walls (or rather several more, considering the overcomplicated architecture) was not a choice made by himself.

This was just business: the swivelling stool bedazzled with silver colour gems that he sat on? Business. The prolific fairy lights hung everywhere and anywhere, twinkling slowly and with purpose? Business.

(Although, maybe he didn’t loathe it entirely.)

The shuffling ceases for a moment and his eyes flicker up instantly, locking on the held up article of clothing and raising a brow at the person brandishing it.

“I’d say this is pretty accurate to you, Jeonghui.”

He rolls his eyes at the use of his fake name and gives the item a look of slight disgust and evidently criticizes it just with his gaze.

“Are you sure leopard print is my style, Hongjoong?”

“I mean…”

“Hongjoong.” He deadpans.

A moment of careful and deliberate scrutinization is clear on the boy’s features for a very brief few moments in time before it falls to something akin to exasperation. Forlornly, he slots the garment back into a rack of numerous button-ups and jackets, fingers nimbly working through as eyes scan intensely for something he deems worthy of presentation.

Stretching limbs out, he yawns, eyes growing tired of spectating and mind running endlessly with unrelated thoughts as the boredom catches up to him.

“Why is getting the outfits perfect so important anyway?”

As though he’s spoken taboo, at once a piercing gaze is dead set on his suddenly quivering pupils, staring deeply into a well he figures to be his soul, scorning it distastefully.

“Tell me, Yeosang, would you like to show up looking like a naive schoolboy or would you like to look like an imposing man who isn’t frightened to shoot his gun?”

“I’m hardly an adult.”

Hongjoong clicks his tongue and returns to his search, pulling out something silky and of a deep navy blue hue that he seems to approve of, holding onto as he flicks through materials of different assortments.

“Since that’s the case, surely you’d want to look more mature, right?” He mumbles, and Yeosang only listens because he knows no one else is in the room for his words to be addressed to, “After all, we wouldn’t want them to think you’re a joke.”

He shrugs, shifting his eyes to another rack.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Two hangers holding button-ups are handed over to him: one being the blue he had seen earlier and another being a shade of red close to what he supposed to be wine but as the light reflected on the slightly sheened material, it appeared to come closer to a garnet hue. A moment is wasted on admiration of the fine feeling fabric before he thinks to question the purpose of being handed it.

“Try ‘em out, Hui,” Hongjoong slots his hands into his back pockets as he addresses Yeosang, “I wanna see if they suit you.”

At once, he gets to work at removing his shirt, unabashed because, to be frank, everyone in KQ and RBW has seen each other changing at least once, whether intentional or not. Hongjoong’s eyes trail, and he doesn’t squirm under the observation, just flinches at the sudden flash of shock and concern on the other’s face, taking a look down at once.

Brittle black and poisonous purple stain the ladder of ribs pressing delicately against taut skin, hues of sickly yellow seeping into the afflicted area and creating a ghastly mixture of broken blood vessels. It stings a bit to move considering how the skin stretches at every little move, even so much as a breath, but after weeks he had somewhat let the pain blend into his daily life, hardly noticing it.

Nevertheless, it’s only now that he’s realised how terrible it looks.

He averts his eyes at once and picks up an article of clothing.

Swiftly he pulls the sleek navy fabric over his figure, fingers making quick work at the buttons that slide easily into place. The garment hangs loosely on his figure but isn’t oversized, merely slinky and seems to grab onto the correct places, accentuating what needs to be shown off and hiding what doesn’t.

Yeosang glances up and witnesses the wide grin on the leader’s face before it slips off, and he steps forward, closer than before. His fingers attach to one of the top buttons and slip it out of its hold before he’s moving back again, nodding with approval.

Meeting his own eyes in a nearby mirror, Yeosang doesn’t fail to notice how the blouse isn’t exactly his usual style - far too grand - but finds himself liking the sort of mysterious and dark vibe it gives him. Maybe he’ll take something from this mission, he muses.

“It’s perfect.”

The pride in his voice is evident, and Yeosang spares a small smile, nodding in agreement that brings out a happy glint in the older’s eye.

“Try the other one, I’ll look for some more things to suit you.”

“Alright.”

Fingers lingering over the fabric of the other button-up, he begins undressing once more, confident as Hongjoong has gone to busy himself with searching through endless racks of clothing.

Part of him likes this: the whole idea of Jeonghui, the person he’s supposed to pretend to be. Perhaps it’s because of the outfits, he’s not too sure, but something in him adores what has been set out for him.

Someone sharp talking yet extremely closed off at the same time - someone mysterious yet confident, their past not affecting their attitude, and if so, developing it into something better than it had been previously. If Seonghwa were to judge, he’d tell Yeosang that it was akin to how he acted anyway, but it was certain the boy himself didn’t think so.

He realizes he’s almost done buttoning the red shirt when he snaps out of his thoughts, remembering to leave the top buttons unclasped.

(Why it had to be so? He had no idea, but it was definitely something new. Maybe a tad bit more Wooyoung’s style but the purpose wasn’t to go in as the same Yeosang he was before, it was to become Jeonghui: semi-professional racer.)

Hongjoong seems to have finished with his deciding, the clothes picked out having been set to the side with the blue button-up previously tried in his possession, folded neatly and in the process of being set atop the pile (or rather, piles).

Once more he removes the blouse and hands it over to the other, slipping on his shirt as quickly as possible, slightly nervous about being under a critical gaze.

Fingers brush over his ribs briefly before fleeing, almost too frightened to be upon the disaster any longer; a frown forms but flees swiftly.

“Call Seojun for me, would you?”

“You mean Wooyoung?”

“C’mon, Hui, I’m trying to get you guys used to your names.”

Yeosang snickers at the sound of whining in the older’s voice and waves him off, reaching for the door handle to complete the request at once.

-

The striking pattern of a leopard print button-up is carefully lifted to eyesight, a careful and precise eye darting between the garment and the preoccupied boy sitting just a mere two meters away. A pleased noise sounds and suddenly the other is not as preoccupied as he had been, taking the chance to look the item up and down before grinning.

A snort comes from the side of the room and both sets of eyes are suddenly pinned on the perpetrator.

“Isn’t that what he normally wears?”

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then why can’t I wear my clothes?”

“Because you only wear hoodies!”

“And that is better than my hoodies?”

It doesn’t come to much of a surprise that soon he’s being pushed out of the room, and a door is promptly slammed behind him, the faint words of “he’s distracting my workflow” making him roll his eyes and slink away from the room, the lack of bright lights soothing on his eyes.

It’s rather fun to be with the two lively figures but on his own, his thoughts are inescapable, and it’s something he has been eager to avoid.

He solemnly makes his way down the familiar set of hallways and passages to his secluded quarters, settling down with his back against the mattress: eyes peering soullessly at the nothingness of the ceiling as if it would unlock the world’s secrets with enough staring.

Exhaustion seems to follow him even to the depths of hell where the fiery embers nip and tickle at his skin. He bemoans this inescapable tragedy.

-

“Tomorrow, understand?”

Yeosang ponders the words that seem to faintly echo in his mind, the voice of Seonghwa fresh and ever so haunting. It feels too real: the fact the mission is in mere hours and nothing can slow down or take back time for him to just breathe and get accustomed to the idea of impending doom.

The world never seems to favour Yeosang that much.

San had been asked to remain behind after the meeting ended, a sort of worried expression plastered over Seonghwa’s face as he had requested - or rather, demanded - the action, although, Yeosang mused, when wasn’t he somewhat stressed or concerned?

Nevertheless, it led to an anxious Wooyoung, and an anxious Wooyoung was not only unusual but frightening. Yeosang took it upon himself to walk the boy to his room, hands polite in fear of setting off the other in an attempt at physical comfort.

(After all, San was the cuddly one, _not_ him!)

Reaching the door gave him a sense of relief, however. At least, until he watched Wooyoung hesitate for a moment, turning to glance at him with curiosity glinting in his eyes (or were those tears?).

“Do you want to stay with me?”

Heart dropping, it took a few moments to process the implications of the words before the thrumming in his chest could simmer down to a perhaps irregular but mostly normal pace. It was a question of staying the night for comfort, rather than a relationship breaking, heart-stopping revelation to be made, and it felt somewhat ridiculous to have reacted so strongly for nothing. 

Regardless, something about the childishly innocent glimmer in his eyes made Yeosang feel guilty of the slow shake of his head. It was not intentional - it being the devastation overwhelming the boy’s features - but it had to be done. Prior promises could not be broken - Yeosang did not tarnish the oaths he made.

“But- But please?”

Round eyes and a soft whine in his tone. Yeosang rolled his eyes.

“Your whining only works on San, Woo.”

“But why can’t you stay?” He suddenly smirks devilishly, “Something private you need to address?”

“What- Woo! No- I just... have to meet someone tonight. To talk.”

If his voice wavers slightly, it’s brushed off.

His feet carry him away swiftly before he can address the noise of surprise from the other and the babbling beginnings of endless questions that his ears beg to evade.

It feels like he’s been in this exact position before.

-

Light footsteps patter against the concrete like gentle summer rain, relieving - a break from the heat, and somewhat surprising - a lovely present from the scorching weather. His ears perk up at once at the sound and remain hooked on the melodic cacophony, only settling down once the sound has stopped and a figure halts beside him.

Crouching down, the other presses their fingers and palms against the rough surface of the roof and sits down, legs curling inwards to cross over in what turns out to be a rather childlike sitting position.

He doesn’t waste time today and turns to look at the other at once, catching the gaze before it has time to vanish as it usually does.

“Are you leaving?”

A singular hum of agreement and the slightest nod.

“How did you know?”

His eyes find refuge in the city lights that cease to twinkle on through the heat and the darkness, providing light regardless of the necessity for it. Maybe it helps him find words in these meetings, he’s not sure. He doesn’t like the idea that he’s dependent on them, however.

“I heard Wooyoung and San talking about it earlier.”

“Oh… I’m-”

“It’s fine.”

A firm frown finds its way to his lips as if defying his words.

“When will you come back?”

The other shakes his head, “I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

A breathy sigh slips through his lips, and he looks up at the starless night, wishing upon the shining sparks for something the other seems to ponder but inevitably gives up on trying to figure out.

It’s a tense moment of silence, but he places his arm around the other’s shoulders regardless of the thickness of the air, regardless of the naggingly painful ache in his chest that simply won’t leave him alone, not even for the night.

A contraction of muscles is observed at first, but soon the other relaxes under the touch. He smiles and receives a small reciprocation for his efforts.

Whispers are shared, something secret between the two and the night, not to be shared beyond the moments they are set free into the dark expanse of emptiness.

At some point, he looks up into the other’s eyes, and there seems to be something there that calls out like a burning flare. Perhaps the other sees something in his eyes as well but figures it may be a reflection of the surrounding lights, glinting deceivingly. He drinks in the image found in the other’s eyes.

The stars and constellations, the galaxies and planets. As if the universe had been stolen from the night sky and granted a place in the glimmering pool of the other’s eyes: something to get beautifully lost in. Entrancing, ethereal, and intricate - he stares deeply into them, searching vaguely, although mostly wandering, exploring their expanses with an acute interest and unfound purpose, simply enthralled by their wonders: addictive and encapsulating in their ever-flowing mirth and deified beauty. As though a painting brought to life, they twinkle teasingly, tailored to their audience in the way they glisten, hitting at points that well up something closer to awe or sorrow, but in spirit do not intend to. They are the embodiment of playfulness, wistfulness, and maturity combined peacefully, perhaps breaking at moments for squabbles but nevertheless living in a harmonious bond: gorgeous and unwavering.

Lashes flutter shut over the dazzling orbs for a moment, halting the powerful spell projected from them for a moment, allowing him to look away and the other to gather his wits and sharpen his tongue once more.

“I’ll come back.”

A promise both know is uncertain, more likely to be broken than not. It doesn’t matter, however, because he hopes - begs, in fact - that the other will be back, regardless of fate’s cruel plans.

Physical or not, alive or dead.

It’s not characteristic of the other to break promises.

-

Keys jangle discordantly, keeping up pace with the irregular rhythm of his anxious heart. Their stiff, shiny structure elicits chimes upon colliding: pretty to a point but incessantly annoying beyond that, halting only upon restraint that leads to their pointed jagged edges digging into the entity withholding them.

There’s a set of two - car keys - alongside one of a different cut, seemingly to unlock a door which he supposes to be, perhaps, to a house. They swing noisily for a moment longer before fingers slip over their metallic forms, wrapping over them and taking them into their grasp to be saved.

Yeosang lets Wooyoung take one of the car keys into his own possession but stows away the presumed house keys in fear of the younger losing them by chance.

(He knows Wooyoung is semi-responsible but ‘semi’ simply does not cut it.)

A hard-plastic suitcase is handed to each of them, Yeosang’s one adorned with Hello Kitty stickers that he rolls his eyes at, glancing at a grinning Wooyoung (and a slightly smirking Hongjoong). Whilst he finds it somewhat pretty (more than somewhat), he supposes it to be childish and feels a tinge of embarrassment at the offending object being in his possession.

Seonghwa’s hand encapsulates his own, a thin paper strip being slipped into his palm before the grasp loosens and slips away. His eyes scan the letters upon it before storing it in a back pocket slyly.

“Now remember, Seojun,” Seonghwa begins, “Behave yourself.”

Groans of annoyance escape the boy’s lips with a hiss of a “fine” accompanied by an exasperated eye roll.

“Where is San?”

Yeosang finds his voice resonates uncomfortably loudly in his ears and holds himself back from wincing so openly at it, unsettled with the idea of his own thunderous anxiety being so enveloping.

“He’s being transported to a location near yours.”

He hums in understanding before taking the earpiece being offered to him by Hongjoong, slipping in the small device and tapping at it twice to hear it click to life. Part of him is glad that they’ve managed to get such high-quality tech because big wired earpieces would be ridiculously obvious.

A hand waves them off, and soon Seonghwa and Hongjoong are watching them walk off with light chatter, officially beginning their mission with the hopes of return a pressing concern. 

-

“Wow,” He draws out, grin wide, “Hongjoong really prepared well for this, didn’t he?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure he owned these already-”

“I like to think he does these things especially for us, Hui, okay?”

He sighs, “Dramatic.”

“Am not!”

Yeosang shifts his eyes between the sports car and Wooyoung, rolling his eyes at the other’s attitude but not commenting on it further. He knows how annoyingly (he adores it) whiny Wooyoung gets over small, trivial things and honestly, his nerves are eating at him from the inside out, leaving him feeling vulnerable and certainly unprepared to deal with the catastrophic winging that would ensue. It makes him insatiably nervous, but it has reached a point wherein its deathly hold on him cannot get any stronger, and he finds himself in a state of fragility that he is able to adapt to.

Nevertheless, he swallows down his still prominent emotions and presses the key fob in the direction of his vehicle.

The car unlocks with a click, and he soon finds himself revving up the engine via the ignition, feeling the whole vehicle roar to life before clicking in his seatbelt and pressing down on the accelerator (at least, after getting out of the parking spot). Slick black, with a shiny coat, the steering wheel moves with ease, and Yeosang decides that this car is possibly his favourite - and most likely is extremely expensive.

(If his speed begins to drop to a safer number after this realization, then no one can judge him for that - having to pay off the debt from so much as a dent would kill him.)

Reaching the main road, his hands move automatically as if the route is ingrained in his brain; from the many times he has driven to Gangnam, it seems his body has grown accustomed to every turn, nook and cranny that the journey has to show. It’s practically second nature, and thus Wooyoung tails him instead of leading the way as he usually would (Yeosang imagines the boy huffing childishly and smiles in endearment at the thought).

It’s a fairly long drive, and by the time they have arrived at the supposed apartment block that the address leads to, the sun has begun to fall beyond the horizon: the land consuming its golden rays and leaving behind the beautiful trails of its sorrowful exit. Darkness slowly filters through the sky and erases all traces of the beautiful light, leaving behind a blank canvas that conceals stars.

The keys fit into the lock smoothly, perhaps being the first time in use, and Yeosang gets to work at unpacking his bags.

“Hello? Seojun, Jeonghui, do you copy?”

Yeosang’s lips part but Wooyoung is faster.

“Yeah! We’re here, what’s up?”

“Get ready, you’re hitting the club and getting into the back room.”

“This early?” Yeosang lets himself question out loud rather than in his head.

“It’s the most opportune time of the day, so hurry!”

Yeosang shoos Wooyoung to his room, slipping red gemmed rings on as his eyes scanned for the most appropriate articles of clothing for the task. At least, that’s until he realizes that all of his clothes are indeed intended for clubbing of a sort, and he meekly picks up a black piece that is most like his normal style.

A snort escapes him as he catches a glimpse at the leopard print button-up being utilized by Wooyoung.

“It really is what you normally wear, huh?”

He takes note of the lack of buttons done up and Wooyoung places a hand over his own chest at the scrutiny.

“Hey! We’re not here to judge!”

“Stop flirting, boys, and hurry up!”

San’s voice cuts through the squabble and Yeosang smirks in triumph, slipping on another ring on his index finger of his left hand before pocketing his keys - both of them.

A glance is thrown at Wooyoung who follows like a kicked puppy, fingers dancing at his chest and mulling over buttoning one more button, but ultimately giving up and leaving it as exposed as it was before.

-

Pulsating beats paired with blinding and glitzy stage-lighting makes for a dastardly concoction that one could call a migraine. An overload of senses that do not please the mind but create a strain on the muscles of the head: painful and stressful.

He breathes out through his mouth and attempts to block out the environment, fingers clasping around the wrist of his partner as he takes the lead, pushing through the masses of scalding hot bodies that float around.

Drinks spill to the floor in dismal puddles of sticky alcohol infused juice, the scent rising upwards and settling unpleasantly upon sensitive nostrils. Liquid squelches inaudibly below their feet, the pitiful sound drowned by the deep bass thundering through the room, bouncing off the walls, and inducing sharp pains to the head region. It’s a challenge to battle through everyone who rushes about, dizzy and frantic in their acts, intoxicated and ever so vulnerable to the point he almost sneers, entirely hating of the whole ordeal.

Yeosang never particularly liked alcohol.

At last, it comes as a relief to find a door at the back of the club, guarded by only one security guard.

“We have eyes on the door.”

“Is there anyone guarding it?”

His eyes glance over for confirmation, “Yeah, looks like it’s just one guy.”

“Make contact.”

“Copy that.”

Yeosang rolls his shoulders back, almost missing the pops of bones through the loud techno music flooding his ears. His fingers loosen their grip on the other’s wrist, coming to slip into his pocket as he walks over with confident movements.

The guard looks him up and down before doing the same to Wooyoung, pausing to think for a moment before sliding a hand to his waist and lifting his chin authoritatively. 

“Business?”

“Here for Mr Shin.”

“Has he requested for you?”

Yeosang shrugs, fingers sliding into his back pocket and fishing out a roll of notes, passing it over below the waist where the guard swiftly pockets it.

“I don’t know,” A sweet smile adorns his lips, “_has_ he?”

The door is unlocked with a small key that the guard drags from the belt hook of his pants before it’s pushed open wide enough for them to pass one at a time, only closing once they’re soundly inside and locking with a click.

Yeosang glances behind at the door, before sparing a look at Wooyoung who seems to be wearing a wide grin.

“What?”

“That was pretty hot if I do say so myself.”

“Oh, shut up.”

His hiss garners a cackle.

Scanning the layout of the hallway they’ve found themselves in, it seems there’s not much to actually look at or deliberate over. One way to go with one turn to the left. Paintings of minimalist images scatter the walls, and lights illuminate the path from below, casting a yellowish hue against the painted red walls.

His shoes click noisily against the floor, and from the sound, Yeosang can tell it’s wood, perhaps oak. It’s a contrast from the cheap plastic-infused coverings of the rest of the club, supposedly concealing concrete underneath. He ponders the idea of something like RBW being hidden behind KQ’s office blocks but decides the building to be too small for such an organization.

Doors line the rest of the hallway past the first turn, with one door at the far end. From the sounds penetrating the thin and flimsy material of the barriers between the inside and outside of the rooms, Yeosang infers that they must be private service rooms. His pace quickens thereafter.

“Make sure you’re both careful in there.” San breaks through the not so silent silence, “And Seojun?”

“What is it?”

“Hold your tongue for once. Let Jeonghui talk.”

Yeosang turns to glance at Wooyoung and catches the dramatic roll of his eyes, muffling a snicker behind his hands at the sight. He supposes the response is justified but doesn’t comment on it regardless.

His shoes continue to create the same amount of noise as they had earlier, and he winces increasingly at the volume the closer they get to the final door, certain their arrival is anticipated. Perhaps that was the idea whilst designing the building - that, or they simply thought oak would be a nice touch.

He counts the paintings on the wall that seem to fill the empty space between rooms, taking a few moments to decipher the signatures at the bottom or corners of each. Maybe they’re somewhat interesting, but it’s obvious he’s simply bored of the long walk, and a tad bit anxious.

Just a few more rooms, he reminds himself, finding they’re nearing the end.

They arrive outside of the door, Yeosang’s fist raising to deliver knocks. However, it seems there is nothing to knock, and at once a gun is thrust at his temple: the cold barrel of the gun pressing harshly against his skin.

“What a lousy way to greet a friend, huh?”

Yeosang glares at Wooyoung.

“Who sent you?”

“We came of our own accord.” Yeosang hisses through his teeth.

“And for what purpose?”

“Maybe if there wasn’t a gun against my head I’d be more willing to explain.”

A flicker of irritation, “Tch, kids.”

Slowly the weapon is pulled away from him, and Yeosang finally catches a glimpse of the inside of the room.

Large widescreen TVs hang against the walls, coating every inch of spare space. All of them seem to be set to the same channel, showing a car racing broadcast wherein the racers are, on average, on their 23rd lap out of 57.

Yeosang flashes an ingenuine smile at the man who had threatened him, clearing his throat.

“We’re interested in racing for Mr Shin.”

“And why didn’t you go looking for JYP’s lot?”

“We go to where the money is, and I guess that leads us right here.”

A strain of hesitation flashes on the man’s face before he quickly ducks his head back into the room, jaw moving as an indication of his speech. It seems he’s asking someone else for advice.

After another moment, he returns, sliding his gun into the back of his pants and nodding in the direction of the room, stepping back to open the door.

“You’re going to need to show your skills to join.”

“Fine by us.”

A roll of eyes - an attitude that Yeosang is beginning to get really sick of, “The boss wants to see you first.”

Yeosang stares intently at the other’s face, scanning for a lie or an ulterior motive, before deciding the offer had been genuine. Nevertheless, he steps cautiously into the room, Wooyoung following right behind.

“Don’t trust them too much.”

A breath is blown out at the order from the com. It’s obvious, but he knows San says it because he’s worried - probably had heard the conversation earlier and got worked up.

The door shuts with a heavy slam and soon Yeosang realizes all five sets of eyes in the room are pinned on him, Wooyoung not included considering his nervously wandering eyes.

“These are the racers, hm?”

Shin’s voice is deep with a husky quality, cumbered with something like smoke-damage as he croaks slightly around higher-pitched sounds, most notably his pronunciation of ‘racers’. It’s intimidating and dark, matching the soulless stare he sends unwaveringly.

“Yes, sir. They’re ready to take the test now.”

His ears perk up at the words spoken and his brows furrow.

“Take them to the parking lot, it’s not too late to do it there.”

“Yes, sir-”

“In fact,” The man stands up from his seat at the couch, throwing his cigarette to the floor and stomping a heel into it, “I think I’ll watch this one. There may be some... casualties today.”

Yeosang’s jaw stiffens as the words unfold in his mind, fingers curling and unfurling in mild irritation. Not even two minutes into the meeting, and they’re being undermined, underestimated. His head hurts from how hard his brows pinch together.

They’re lead through a backdoor that opens up to the parking lot directly, inconspicuously placed and with a sign on the back of the door that makes it seem like a generator room of sorts - high voltage and dangerous. It’s smart, admittedly. Yeosang would have never suspected it.

A gentle breeze makes its way through the half-empty lot, ruffling his loose-fitting shirt and calming his nerves just by a bit.

“One of you own a car, yes?”

Yeosang nods.

“Loop the lot and park in the same spot you started without braking. You have a minute.”

“And who do you expect to be doing this?”

The first man looks at Yeosang and nods at him, prompting him to fish out his keys from a pocket. But a hand is put onto his shoulder, and at once his eyes flicker up from where they had been pinned to his pockets.

Shin smiles a dirty smile and Yeosang’s heart drops to his stomach.

“Send the other one, he looks nervous.”

“Are you su-”

“_Drive_.” He cuts through, “Now.”

Wooyoung laughs lightly, eyes meeting Yeosang’s. He nods gently as if assuring him, and it instantly calms the explosions occurring in his chest. Yeosang throws his keys to the boy, and he catches it with ease, heels clicking against the asphalt on his way to his car.

Yeosang hears San call out a “_drive safely_” in his earpiece and smiles, quickly covering it up with a neutral face.

The car’s engine is revved loudly, and soon Wooyoung is driving out of his parking spot and reversing rapidly until finally able to move forward without obstruction. From his side, Yeosang can hear the countdown.

Accelerating, the boy pulls at the steering wheel with vigour, sending the car drifting around a corner before allowing the wheel to slide back into the default position. It’s a tight turn, and the car almost brushes against the small concrete barrier between the sides of the parking lot, but there is no skidding of metal against it.

The car makes its way swiftly towards the other end of the lot before swerving once more, kicking up some asphalt and blowing litter into the air. Faintly, Yeosang can feel the heat of the exhaust blowing on his face as the boy zips past, the countdown already at half-time.

“Do you think he’ll be able to stop?”

Shin shrugs, “If he plans on living, he will.”

Wooyoung’s car flies down the lot at record speed before swerving to the side where he started. The car shakes and shivers with the strain, but neatly makes the turn into the small parking spot, rushing quickly beside a set of other cars.

The car jolts viciously as he breaks harshly, almost toppling over but instead falling back and bouncing on the suspension with a loud crash. It bobs up and down for a moment before settling down

Without scratches, the car’s engine turns off and the faint sound of the door’s locks popping out is heard.

Moments later Wooyoung steps out of the car, hair slightly tousled and with a grin.

The air is slightly tense, but his demeanour lightens it immensely, with Yeosang even allowing the relaxation of his shoulders and the beginnings of a smile to overcome him. It seems the whole ordeal has gone incredibly well already.

“How’d I do?”

His voice echoes through the parking lot as he shouts the question. It makes the man who escorted them there scowl but leaves Shin with a look of pride that Yeosang is unsure of.

“That was pretty hot.”

San breathes out his words through the com, and Yeosang takes a moment to let his eyes drift to a street lamp, searching for a camera. He presumes the other to have hacked into one and finds one nearby after a couple of glances.

“And I’m the one flirting, huh?” Yeosang mumbles under his breath.

Before it can become suspicious, he looks back and contorts his face into a look of determination, composing himself.

“So, I have to ask,” He extends his hand, making tense eye contact, “are you willing to let us join you?”

Shin takes his hand almost immediately, and Yeosang shakes it firmly, ignoring the crushing grip that makes his bones ache at every move.

It seems to be the beginning of something terrible.

-

“What are your names, anyway?”

“I think I’d be way more interested in finding out your name.”

Yeosang scrunches his nose at the tray of drinks being offered, picking up a shot glass of what he can only guess to be whiskey before throwing it into a potted plant. He’s hardly paying attention to the conversation Wooyoung is striking with Shin, far more bothered with disposing of as many shot glasses worth of alcohol before anyone can notice he’s not drinking them.

“Aren’t you brave, asking me my name on the first day?”

“I’m not too fond of formalities.”

“That I can see.”

His eyes catch on one of the boss’ men observing him as his hands pick up a shot glass, leaving him to down the foul-tasting concoction. It makes him gag softly but it’s covered up nicely, and the empty glass is placed onto the tray it came from.

Wooyoung, in his midst of conversation, seems to have thrown an arm around him, and Yeosang leans back into it, finally focusing on the words being spoken.

“Shin Daejung would be the name.”

“Park Seojun. And this is Choi Jeonghui.”

“Interesting.”

The name rings a bell and Yeosang ponders the significance of learning the name. He’s sure San has reported it already or at least written it down for later.

Wooyoung continues with his conversation, allowing light jokes to be made occasionally that Yeosang politely laughs at. All throughout the night, he’s offered more and more alcohol that he occasionally hands to Wooyoung, knowing the boy to be a heavyweight. But if he can, he throws it into that same potted plant.

(It’s probably going to die soon from all of the alcohol, but Yeosang doesn’t think he’ll be here long enough to witness the death of a small bush.)

By the time they’re heading back to their apartment complex, it’s 1 A.M and Wooyoung is tipsy, stumbling over his own feet every now and then. His state reduces him to the passenger seat, with Yeosang driving them back.

The only things they had managed to gather from their time there was that Yeosang was due to be racing one of Shin’s men the next day to test his ability. Other than that, it was mostly misogynistic remarks and talk of racing that Wooyoung evidently disliked.

Nevertheless, the infiltration was a success, and Yeosang finds himself tucking in the mildly intoxicated boy into bed that night with a sigh of relief.

He, however, does not go to sleep and turns off his com in favour of staying up to research Shin. It calms his nerves, and if the eye bags under his eyes are worse than usual, it’s not commented on.

-

Skidding, the back wheels of the car come to a halt and the car spirals out of control, another car zooming past and leaving it quite literally in the dust. It had been a dirty trick, but it wasn’t as though there were any rules about street racing.

Yeosang’s car came to a screeching halt at the supposed finish line, the other racer far behind and thus finishing minutes later. A neatly folded stack of notes is slipped into his hand that he pockets silently, receiving a hard slap at his back and croaky congratulations.

The scent of smoke on the man’s breath is pungent and it elicits a silent gag.

They’re invited for another round of drinks back in what Shin calls “the den”. That’s where the interrogation and suspicions begin.

Shin asks Wooyoung about his family, and as they’ve been taught, he begins to prattle on about his fake identity’s family members.

“My dad actually taught me how to drive a manual, reckon I was thirteen? But it wasn’t until I met Hui that I got into racing or anything.”

Yeosang had widened his eyes at that. Connecting them and setting a possible time of meeting was against what Hongjoong had set out for them, but here he was, prattling on. Yeosang could practically feel the hissing “stop” that San let out.

“Ah, so Jeonghui here is our racer? I’m intrigued, tell me more.”

“There’s not much to it,” Yeosang shrugs, “I met him at a racing track a couple of years ago, and he practically begged me to teach him.”

“I did not beg-”

“And what about your family?”

His fingers reach out for a shot glass, downing it and ignoring the stinging pain at the back of his throat.

He shrugs, placing the empty glass down and staring at Shin with a slack jaw.

“I suppose they’re dead.”

The question session ends fairly fast after that.

When they begin heading home, Yeosang turns off his intercom, ears aching on both sides from the sound of San’s scolding paired with Wooyoung’s defence. It’s mostly made up of whining and hissed curses that make his head throb.

This night, he actually sleeps, far too tired from the day’s events.

-

Steadily, the meetings continue, with Yeosang contracted for more and more races as the days go by. Some days he is swamped, having to attend two or even three races, the result being large sums of money falling into his hands, and wild celebrations being held back at the ‘den’. It seems he’s preferred over Wooyoung, and part of him is thankful.

Almost three weeks have passed, and trust has grown strong. 

But there’s a tension between Wooyoung and Yeosang that’s unavoidable, always hanging in the air.

“Maybe you should do this racing thing instead, Sang. It suits you.”

He shrugs after a moment of thought.

“I guess I should.”

“I mean, I was joking but-”

“I _know_.”

Wooyoung doesn’t understand why Yeosang has gotten so cold lately - so unreasonably closed off. He has theories and San talks to him about them, cutting the connection between his and Yeosang’s intercom so that they can discuss privately (although, it doesn’t stop Yeosang overhearing his name being spoken through the walls some nights).

One of these theories is that he’s reminiscing on the past: something San doesn’t fully understand, and something Wooyoung finds himself unable to explain to the boy. He explains its personal, and San sulks.

It’s the same old spiel over and over again: it’s too personal.

San feels terribly alone, even more so than he had before.

They’re all on edge. It’s what a mission of this length does to you: it makes you terribly anxious and irritable to those close to you. It ruins relationships and messes with your mind, it makes you sick to your stomach and keeps you wishing for better. Everything crashes onto you, like a tsunami; you’re left to your own thoughts for so long that they eat at you, ravenous.

Nevertheless, they must push on.

There are orders from Hongjoong to speed up the questioning, which San relays. It prompts whines from Wooyoung and Yeosang’s reclusiveness to spike to levels unimaginable, rarely leaving his room once arriving from business and even refusing to talk.

Wooyoung asks Shin about previous racers and receives a detailed history of the many ‘losses’ and ‘resignations’. It’s quite obvious he had been hinting at crashes and assassinations, but he holds his tongue and gets San to relay the information.

It’s Yeosang’s turn to collect information, and the most opportune moment arises.

The sound of Shin’s curses is loud and clear in his ears, the man having stepped outside for a short while to discuss business plans, only to grow enraged. Everyone else had left to attend a race, leaving only Yeosang and Wooyoung.

“Seems someone has some enemies.”

Perhaps his timing was off, but being grabbed by his collar and slammed against a TV is not exactly how he had planned for the conversation to go. His shoulder blades bump harshly against the glass, instantly aching.

“Don’t fucking eavesdrop.”

The grip on his shirt is loosened, and the man takes a moment to breathe - to calm his anger. It takes a moment, but soon he’s looking Yeosang up and down, catching the look of disgust on his features. At once his hands reach to even out the boy’s button-up.

“My apologies, I lost my temper.”

“Bad habit, I presume.”

“Indeed, my bad. It was not my intention to cause harm, you see.”

Yeosang wants to scoff. Grovelling - Shin is _grovelling_. It’s obvious they’re nothing without him, and it’s hardly been a month. Perhaps they’re just cowards, sitting on a self-proclaimed high horse. It gives Yeosang a sense of superiority.

“I was just discussing with one of my business partners and he brought up one of our rivals.”

“Pray tell.”

Shin motions for him to sit down on the couch where Wooyoung shoots Yeosang a look of concern, something that he completely brushes off.

His arms cross over his chest as he waits for the man to spill his guts, unimpressed look plain and obvious on his features. It makes Shin seemingly more anxious, almost too anxious to be real, but he doesn’t bother to delve into it.

“Recently KQ has proved bothersome. We haven’t had much of a problem with them in the past, but now especially, they’re being difficult.”

Yeosang stills slightly, nodding slowly.

“We’ve been thinking about dealing with one of their members, but word is they’re off the grid recently. There’s not much information besides that.”

“Deal as in taking out?”

“You learn quickly, I see.”

Chills run up his spine but he shrugs regardless, “I’m told.”

“There’s also the leader of KQ that I’ve heard so much about - so problematic.”

Yeosang’s lips lift at the corners, “Care to explain?”

Shin raises a brow at the boy. The sound of San’s praises ring through his ears and Wooyoung tries to sit as still and inconspicuously as possible for the flow of the conversation to not be ruined. This has been the most information they’ve gotten since they arrived.

A lighter is slipped out a pocket as well as a packet of cigarettes, one of the white sticks being slipped out with ease.

His eyes flicker up to Yeosang, offering a cigarette that he briefly shakes his head at. Smoking is possibly his least favourite thing in the world, and the smell of smoke gets his stomach in a fit, trying to upturn its contents onto the nearest surface.

The cigarette is lit and the lighter is pocketed once more.

One puff of the stick, a smoke cloud drifting towards the two on the couch. Shin sighs.

“He’s always doing something, and never gets shit for it. But one day,” A cough escapes his lips, “One day, that bastard is going to get what he deserves. There are already plans for it.”

“You seem to hate him, is that, perhaps, _personal_?”

“Personal my ass, it’s _very_ personal. You have no idea how much I’d pay to wrap my fingers around that son of a bitch’s neck and squeeze until all the blood leaves his pathetic fucking face.”

Wooyoung chuckles from the side.

“Some sort of vendetta - that’s cute.”

Shin finds humour in the statement, and a croaky laugh erupts from his throat. His smoke-infused breath assaults Yeosang’s nose, making him curl inwards the slightest amount.

They talk for a while longer before Shin sends them home.

Yeosang locks himself in his room and Wooyoung talks to San.

-

“The race will be tomorrow. Are you in?”

Wooyoung shifts from foot to foot, contemplating.

“Of course. We’ll be there.”

His eyes widen, staring at Yeosang in disbelief. It’s as though the boy hasn’t thought whatsoever, only agreeing because it’s presented to him. It’s reckless, considering the stakes of this race in particular. But then again, recently Yeosang hasn’t been exactly careful.

“What would I do without my best racers?” A hand claps Yeosang’s back, “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Shin sends them off to rest for the next day, and at once Yeosang is walking off to the car, ignoring Wooyoung’s calls for him.

They reach the car and Wooyoung grabs onto his wrist.

“We need to talk, stop ignoring me.” He hisses.

“Not here.”

“_Fine_. I’m driving us.”

It’s a silent journey, with even San keeping out of it.

All throughout, Wooyoung can’t seem to stop thinking.

The race in question was to be spectated by a lot of major gangs in the area, alongside representatives from the larger organized crime groups. A lot of bets would be riding on the race, and that was good and well - Yeosang hadn’t done something of that scale yet but then again, it would have to happen at some point.

That wasn’t the worst part.

It would be Yeosang against Wooyoung under the ploy of them being from different groups. The idea of this being Shin would get the winning and losing money, making the profit higher than it would originally be and ensuring a win regardless.

Foul play, and dangerous. If they were to be caught, it could result in something worse than death. After all, money was like a drug: addictive. If it had been wasted on a scam, these people would not hesitate to take it out on those involved in the worst way possible.

So why on earth had Yeosang agreed?

Even getting out of the car and unlocking the apartment’s front door, Wooyoung couldn’t understand. So when he caught Yeosang trying to slink off to his room, he grabbed the boy at the elbow and held on.

“Are you _insane_?”

“I could ask you the same. Let me go, Woo.”

“Answer me.”

His jaw tightens before he attempts at pulling his arm free from the other’s grasp, only to find the grip to be stronger than he had imagined. A few tugs and his determination deflated, leaving his head to hang dejectedly.

“Do you not understand what you did?! The danger it puts you in?”

There’s a sense of urgency in his voice that bleeds through despite his attempt of keeping a level and reasonable voice. He so desperately wishes to be the voice of reason, to talk sense into the boy and not seem like he’s whining to get his way again.

“Why are you so bothered about it?”

“Because it’s _unsafe_, Yeosang!”

“And all of this _isn’t_?” The disbelief in his voice is evident, “Why are you always so damn protective? Especially with me! It’s suffocating, I feel like a child, for fuck sake! You can’t protect me all the time like I’m fucking _fragile_!”

Wooyoung quietens. Yeosang’s eyes widen in the sudden realization of his words.

His fingers twitch uselessly for a moment, unsure and panicked.

He should be upset- But he shouldn’t. Wooyoung is upset now, that takes priority- Why, should it? He’s torn, but he knows he hates the dark expression on the boy’s voice, and his words hit not only him but the other, much like a slap to the face. He hurries to remedy his words, the aftertaste of them like acidic bile on the tip of his tongue.

“Woo, I- I didn’t mean it, you know that, right?”

There’s a strong waver in his voice and the telltale sign of his throat tightening in the slightly breathless sound of it. Yeosang seems to have reached his breaking point and now that he’s snapped, the horribleness of guilt has hit him strongly, knocking him off his kilter.

Wooyoung doesn’t reply and instead looks off to the side, grip loosening as his eyelids blink rapidly, eyelashes fluttering up and down, occasionally picking up drops of liquid and coming up heavier than they began.

“I’m sorry, please- I was horrible, I didn’t mean it, I never mean it, Woo-”

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt. I don’t want to lose you again because of it.”

“Again?”

San’s voice sounds through their intercoms, a stark reminder that even in these moments, it’s a conversation of three, not two. Yeosang turns off his com and throws it to the coffee table, hands reaching out to hold Wooyoung but falling short.

His own eyes glisten with unshed tears, watching Wooyoung spill his own.

At last, he allows himself to hold onto the boy’s hands, albeit gently. He treats the boy like ceramic and holds him enough to keep a good grip but not too much to cause damage, cosmetic or physical. Wooyoung is fragile in these moments - is always fragile, but especially like this. He, himself? He’s fragile too, but there’s an unspoken order of things.

“I promise I’ll never leave, Wooyoung- I never meant to in the first place.”

“Then why did you?”

“Woo, come on, you know why-”

The boy shakes his head, “Tell me.”

A sigh is breathed out.

“They- My parents- they didn’t approve, even though I said…”

“They…? Yeosang, I don’t understand-”

His eyes search endlessly, rapid and twitching incessantly as if panicking - and he is, in fact, panicking. Hyperventilating, even.

“I wasn’t allowed to see you! Even though I- I tried.”

His eyes widen and a gasp leaves his lips, fingers reaching to pull up Yeosang’s shirt and inspect his skin, only to be gently pushed away with a force too light to be upset, showing a side usually hidden. A sad smile adorns his lips as he stares at the distraught actions of the other.

“Silly,” He sniffles, “you won’t find scars or bruises, it’s been too long.”

Wooyoung’s face crumbles as he pulls the boy into a hug, cradling his head against his chest as though it would the last moment they’d see one another. It’s an action filled with such desperation that it makes Yeosang’s heart ache with the thought. He hates hurting Wooyoung like this - hates hurting him whatsoever.

There are audible sobs into his hair, fingers running through the locks shakily, tugging accidentally as the muscles lock up occasionally.

“I’m sorry.” Yeosang mumbles, receiving an intermittent hush from the boy that clings tighter to him by the second, almost like he’ll disappear otherwise.

“I’m so sorry, Woo.”

“Shut up. Just, shut up, please.”

“I’m sorry, I love you.”

“Fuck, Sang, don’t ever do this to me again. Please-”

Yeosang wraps his arms tightly around the boy’s waist, “I won’t- I promise.”

“I love you, Sang.”

“I know, Woo,” His voice breaks and he wills it to steady, “I know you do.”

San holds himself, watching through the apartment’s security cameras. His eyes prickle with tears that he holds back, fingers reaching to mute his microphone before a sob can brokenly slip out. The sorrowful sounds filter in through Wooyoung’s still on intercom, and a pang of guilt goes through him as he realizes he’s intruding.

It feels lonely, but it makes him determined.

They don’t need to carry their burden alone, he decides.

-

Roaring, the crowd goes wild at the slim victory, only a second’s difference in finishing at most. Some throw their items in anger, bets lost narrowly, whilst others cheer and gloat. It’s a noisy mixture of sudden emotion, positive and negative, and the whole road lights up in an uproar of crazed shouts and whistles.

There’s a dent in the side of both cars, nearing the front where the two had clashed in an attempt of emulating rivalry and competitiveness. Truly, that wasn’t needed, however.

Someone planned to lose anyway.

Wooyoung steps out of the car and shakes hands with Yeosang, head bowed as though slightly defeated. The act he puts up is flawed, and he realises it, but nevertheless he keeps it up even as he goes to collect his compensation, and Yeosang claims his winnings.

It’s shocking how much is invested in these little races (although little is an understatement of a grand scale).

They part ways after that, Wooyoung having had left for a different direction with a pair of men he didn’t know at all, not recognising them as any of Shin’s men. Nevertheless, he follows them, and they take the longer route, eventually meeting up at the ‘den’.

Drinks are served with bubbled laughter, the whole room seemingly alight with positivity. Yeosang allows himself to drink more than one or two shots, stopping at four at the memory of the drive home. It tastes foul on his tongue, and he doesn’t exactly understand why he’s subjecting himself to it, but it washes down with a burn and he brushes it off.

Shin pats him against the back with a haughty laugh.

“You have a bright future in racing, Jeonghui.”

A smile forcibly overcomes his face and he laughs politely.

“I suppose so.”

It’s a good day, regardless of the climate of things previously. Wooyoung places his hand on the older’s thigh and finds that Yeosang leaves it, even inclining towards him.

A good day indeed.

-

A month and a half of races have come and gone, the feeling of a lucky streak putting everyone into high spirits. It seems Shin hasn’t had any troubles with rivals as of yet, and the flow of money from Yeosang and occasionally Wooyoung’s races is keeping the greedy men pleased.

But highs always come with lows, and Yeosang has finally hit the incoming wall, finding it too high to climb with concrete keeping him from digging under. It almost gives him whiplash from how hard he stops at it, a concussion from hitting against it bluntly.

A stupid mistake, costing the victory of a semi-high stake race. The losing money had thankfully been a lot anyways, but it seemed that would not cut it.

Returning, his fingers run nervously over the steering wheel, tapping rapidly.

Shin’s face seems to be curled into a look of disgust and outrage, with Yeosang approaching tentatively, as though scared of the verbal abuse to ensue. The blunt butt of a gun being struck against his cheek is not expected, however. It makes a sickening crack, although he’s sure nothing is broken, only bruised. At once the stinging sensation ensues, and fingers raise to caress the hurt area, eyes burning at once as his lips curl into a snarl.

His body is pushed to the side, the flash of a body moving towards the man showing up in his peripheral.

Wooyoung grabs Shin by the collar, teeth gritting together in apparent - obvious - rage.

“Don’t you dare _touch_ him, asshole! What’s one race going to do to you?”

“I suggest you remove your hands from me before the both of you require disposing of.”

“And that implies you’ll be ridding of Jeonghui?”

The silence is a blatant yes and Wooyoung scoffs, letting go of the man and curling his fingers into a tight fist. His knuckles turn to a sickly white and soon they’re making contact with a sunken cheekbone.

Yeosang has a sense of Déjà vu at the action, and finds it sickening to think only about two months ago Wooyoung had done exactly that to protect him in another way.

Wooyoung and his protectiveness never ceased to impress him.

“You just really want to die, don’t you?” He chuckles darkly, jaw clicking as he rotates it.

Yeosang hisses, “Fuck you!”

There’s a look of pure anger on Wooyoung’s face: unrelenting and slowly being released. His chest heaves up and down as he clenches his fists tighter and tighter, the white of his bones showing clearer than day. Eyes quivering, he speaks deliberately with precise pronunciation.

“If you’re so fucking confident, he’ll race one of your best men, and if he loses then you can deal with us both.”

Shin’s brow quirks up immediately, dirty smile making an appearance once more.

“If he wins?”

“I’ll have your head, and _no one_ gets to touch Hui again.”

Yeosang holds his breath, eyes anxious and hands quivering as the words filter through his ears. He almost doesn’t believe it, thinks it to be a dream, wishes for it to be.

It’s not a dream.

Shin shrugs, eyes murderous, “It’s a deal, pretty boy.”

They leave the establishment in silence, only speaking once in the safety of the car where Wooyoung stares incredulously at his own hands as though they had been stained with blood. His fiery emotions seem to have dissipated into a more relaxed mood, and at once he begins realizing his reckless doings, quivering at every inch of his body. His pupils shake rapidly, eyeing the hands that jitter feverishly before him.

Considering the contents of the deal, he might as well have had blood coating his hands entirely: drenched in the sickly liquid.

“Are you an idiot?” He hisses sharply.

Despondently, he whispers a reply, fingers curling into a fist as the words slip out from his lips. “San’s been asking me that this whole time.”

“We’re going to fucking die, Wooyoung.”

He punches at the dashboard once, twice, and then six more times before slowing his hits to pathetic taps, head lowering and hair covering his eyes. The blood on his knuckles runs messily down his forearm and dribbles down his fingers.

“I know that- _Fuck_, I know that.”

Tears drip into his lap like pathetic raindrops on a particularly cold spring day.

Yeosang puts the keys into the ignition, the engine firing to life. Fingers curl viciously around the hard plastic of the steering wheel, foot pressing lightly against the acceleration.

He tries his best to focus on driving, blocking out the sobs a mere meter away from him. They’re broken sounds, half-muffled with a shaky fist, and Yeosang’s eyes sting against his will at the sound. He curses his empathy, especially his soft spot for the boy, because it makes blocking out his care and worrying for the boy so much harder.

Arriving at the apartment, he hears San’s attempts at addressing both of them. He throws the earpiece to the coffee table and ignores it, slamming his room’s door shut and locking it.

Wooyoung stops sobbing at some point in the night, and he assumes he has finally fallen asleep.

-

Ticking. Loud and stark, harsh and incessant. It gnaws at his ears, chewing them raw, and sending signals of pain up his nerves and to his brain, summoning a concealed response. Blooming irritation grows by the second, fingers twitching out of aggravation and annoyance, jaw locking tightly with restrained rage.

If it were up to him, the damn watch would be in shattered scraps already, crushed under the heavy wheel of the very same car it noisily snapped in.

Strapped onto Shin’s wrist, he’s half certain that this is some form of torture: a method of spiking his already skyrocketing anxiety - a way of making him lose control and composure, to ensure his failure. It’s a cruel trick, a dirty one.

Faintly, he hears the shaking breaths escaping his nose, wavering and unconfident. His grip on the gear shift tightens, the engine running already as he awaits a familiar sound - a deafening gunshot. But as always, eternity and a half must go past before the bullet can finally leave its barrel, only to fall pathetically upon the floor, aimed for nothing and expected of nothing.

A countdown starts, unusually slow. His eyes flash to the view beyond his window, catching onto the gaze of the passenger of the other driver: none other than Wooyoung, brows knitted tightly and eyes filled with something akin to concern.

The last number is uttered and a shot is fired noisily into the air.

His foot slams into the accelerator, lurching the vehicle forward. Dirt kicks up into a cloud of dust, leaving a murky mark alongside skid marks in the terrain. Heart quickening, his fingers tap rhythmically on the wheel he controls dutifully.

At the first curve, his fingers reach for the manual transmission, shifting to the first gear and drifting around the bend before returning to second. His body moves around in a jerky fashion due to the manner of the movement, Shin moving in a similar way. It makes his jaw tighten from what he’s able to catch in his peripheral, but it doesn’t affect his driving.

In the rear-view mirror, he can vaguely see the other car making the same curve, breaking gently to carefully make the curve as opposed to gauging the swerve of the back wheels. Yeosang scoffs.

(If he were in the car with Wooyoung, he would’ve snorted, let off a snarky remark, something along the lines of “What an amateur”, but he’s sure Shin wouldn’t appreciate such words.)

From there, he starts to lose the other racer, breezing through the next few curves and making his way down to the final section of the track: a long bridge over a fast-flowing river, roughly 156 metres long and with metal railings on either side to lightly protect from collisions. It’s in sight, and he takes a moment to glance over at Shin, considering the fairly straight road ahead.

That same tightened jaw, only now with pinched brows. He presumes Shin is mad that he’s losing his deal so easily, had most likely anticipated an easy win. It gives Yeosang an ego boost of sorts.

Eyes back on the road, he feels the gentle bump of his suspension absorbing the short of rolling over the beginning of the bridge, the speed causing it to jerk despite the slight difference in material and height of the terrain. It signals the final kilometre, and Yeosang finally allows himself to breathe.

At least, he lets takes a deep breath before it’s ripped out of his lungs, the back of his seat slamming harshly against him and leaving him winded. The road spirals out of view for a moment, sliding into view for another before panning to a more permanent picture of rushing water. His eyes snap down to the handbrake that is now in the pulled position, and he allows himself to gape at the man beside him for a second.

The car teeters on the edge of the bridge for a moment before falling rapidly into the river, a loud splash accompanying the drop as the vehicle sinks increasingly fast.

His fingers reach for his gun in the back of his pants, pressing against the man’s head in the same instant his finger pulls at the trigger. A sickening shot is sounded, blood splattering against a now shattered window, the shot having blown straight through.

“San, tell Wooyoung to fucking kill the racer, Shin is dead.”

“What? Yeosang, explain! This isn’t the plan!”

“Well, the fucker tried to_ kill me_! There’s not much time before-”

The feeling of water reaching his upper chest makes him gasp, the cold temperature of the water shocking. His fingers reach to unbuckle his seatbelt, pressing a few times before the metal comes unclasped.

“Yeo! Yeo, do you copy?”

“Fucking hurry, I can’t explain!”

His fingers rush to pull at the locks of the door, internally cursing the lack of automatic features that make the whole process painfully difficult. Luckily enough, it releases without much hassle, but it leaves his head tilting upwards, avoiding the water for as long as time allows.

“Y- eo- ng! Do- co- py?”

San’s voice comes out in a string of glitches before cutting out completely. The water surpasses the top of his head and his mouth clamps shut, breath held patiently as his fingers reach out to latch onto the door handle.

Outside of the window, all that can be seen is a series of rocks and pebbles, the car having sunk to the river bed immediately, the water finding its way in through the breach of the window and alternative means. It seems like a scene from a movie, and Yeosang almost puffs out a laugh at the thought before realizing the importance of his slowly escaping oxygen.

Fingers pull at the handle of the door, tugging as frantically as the water will allow before coming to the conclusion that it had somehow gotten stuck.

His foot raises to stomp at the glass of the window in an effort to break it or at least loosen the jam, mouth opening out of habit to intake a breath to fuel his muscle’s activity, only to be met with a gush of water and the release of bubbles from his nose. The water trails harshly down his throat, burning it. He frets at the corners of the window, trying to find weak points, foot slamming down as though in slow motion and thus reducing his strength immensely.

Once more he allows his fingers to pull desperately at the handle, foot pushing against the window at the same time, brows pinched in exertion. After a few harsh tugs, the door removes itself from the body of the car, and Yeosang pushes the rest of it open with his foot.

Bubbles escape his nose once more and he’s suddenly opening his mouth to gasp, only to feel another swash of water gush down his throat. Immeasurably cold and heavy, it feels like he’s sinking even deeper despite knowing it to be impossible.

The pain of lungs burning from water seeping into them, alongside the desperate lack of oxygen makes his arms push against the water frantically, anxious to escape and break to the surface. Black blots his vision in slow splotches, but a set of hands grasping onto him tightly is unmistakable.

Swiftly, his body is brought above the surface and pulled towards the bank of the river, thrown to the dry land at once before another body joins him, leaning over him and worrying at his face before shouting something that he finds difficulty catching onto.

“Wha- -do I- ! _S- an_!”

It feels like he’s still underwater, and there’s the heavy feeling in his chest still lingering, pressing like a tonne of bricks upon his lungs yet burning them from the inside, making him sick to his stomach. In fact, he feels the urge to unload his stomach’s contents onto the vague feeling of land beneath him, but nothing comes out, and he finds himself unable to unpin himself, not even able to dry heave in an effort to expel the encapsulating liquid.

A compression is felt against his chest at once, shocking through his body like a spark of electricity and soon his eyes open as if they had been closed, a jolting sensation rocketing through him. Lips press onto his own, and the sensation of air rushing through is foreign but summons something from his throat that is desperate to escape at once.

Water rushes from his mouth, splashing back onto his lips and dripping down to his cheeks. Instantly he’s flipped to his side, and another compression follows, the same lips pressing and blowing air into his mouth.

More of the saline liquid escapes his lungs and soon he has the capability of coughing up the rest on his own, palms turning to press against what feels like dried up grass, supporting him as his shoulders shake from his chokes, air gushing in through his mouth and filling aching lungs with the sustenance they so desire.

“That’s it, just like that, Sang.” Fingers run through his hair and rub at his back in a way that’s soothing and warm, “You’re doing so well, just like that.”

He looks to respond, but the force of his body’s attempt at extracting the invasive substance is too strong to resist, and his splutters do not cease.

“Yeah,” The other breathes out shakily, “he’s coughing it all up now, I think it’s fine.”

Even as nothing escapes his throat, he coughs, but soon finds the strength to hold back his heaving in favour of breathing in air rather than gasping at it. The other seems to notice and slips a hand into his weak grasp, holding on whilst he tries to reciprocate.

“All better now?”

“Y-yeah. Pro-” A small cough that he involuntarily squeezes the boy’s hand at, “Probably- I think so anyway. But, uh- Thanks for… Just- Thanks.”

“Anytime, Sang. Now, let’s- Oh, San says he’s glad you’re okay, assuming you can’t hear him.”

Yeosang brushes a thumb over the small device in his ear, the familiar sound of a voice nagging having been forgotten but suddenly missed at the reminder of its now lost presence. He removes the now redundant piece and slots it into a pocket, silently making a note to destroy it later.

His gaze shifts up to meet Wooyoung’s and he almost curls into himself at the metaphorical honey that drips from his eyes. The hairs on his neck lift up at once and a sensation of warmth spreads in his cheeks, migrating to his ears before cooling down.

“We can rest a bit if you’re still winded, but we still need to deal with the other three before word spreads.”

Gentle fingers brush at his cheek as the words are softly spoken.

“I can rest after we deal with them.”

“But it’s fine if-”

“Woo, trust me. Let’s just…” A sigh escapes his lips, “Let’s just get this over with and go home.”

He nods hesitantly and pulls up the older, arm slotting itself around his waist as though natural even when Yeosang quietly insists that he can support himself.

(Although it’s more for Wooyoung’s comfort than Yeosang’s safety, he doesn’t need to express that at this time.)

Wooyoung relays all of San’s small remarks and questions when he hears them, the boy being rather lively as they make the way to the end of the track where one of their cars await. Without much dispute, the younger of the two decides to drive and Yeosang allows himself to practice breathing the air he now realizes how much he adores.

Trees flitter past and the city comes back into view, lights turned off and stored for when the night washes over the concrete jungle, anticipating a world of darkness to bring yellow-hued light to.

-

Water still drips off of his figure, leaving dismal drops of saltwater upon waxed oak as his heels manage to click noisily against the material. Heads snap to the direction of the sound, fingers slipping to waists in an instant before they fall limp, uselessly hanging at their sides.

Three ringing shots sound, bouncing against the walls discordantly, momentarily drowning out the sickening dripping of both water and blood. Black screens become stained with the crimson liquid, and soon the room starts to become increasingly foul. Smoky scents mingle with the repugnant odour of fresh blood with a hint of alcohol - a disgusting mixture to be put lightly.

Yeosang lowers his gun, barrel slowly cooling, before slotting it into the waistband of his pants and searching for his partner’s eyes.

“All good?”

“Yeah, but we have orders to collect as much money and evidence before we go.”

“San’s orders?”

“_Hongjoong_.”

He nods in understanding, moving at once to the closest piece of furniture which so happens to be a coffee table.

Wooyoung pulls back the elastic of his pants, slipping the lukewarm metal of the gun into it, having turned the safety on, and concealing the handle with the wispy material of his button-up. Without a moment’s hesitation, his eyes scan the room that he previously hadn’t been able to view in such detail.

“Check the drawers, and be quick. Don’t know if there’s any backup coming.”

“Gotcha.”

The fast-paced sounds of rustling and miniature crashes of objects being thrown about sounds through the room for a solid minute. Yeosang focuses his attention on slipping fingers through crevices and feeling for objects of worth, specifically notes. Mostly old receipts are found, crumpled up, and discarded to a far corner of the room, however, some lonesome notes are found, a large majority being worth only 1,000 won, but nonetheless found themselves tucked into a back pocket.

“Found something!”

“Money?”

“I mean, I guess it’s a whole lot more than money.”

Wooyoung steps back from his discovery, allowing the other to duck his head in and glance at it. A jaw drops for a moment before fingers reach out to grab at the objects. He’s quickly stopped in his movements, however.

“_What_?” He hisses.

“Did you check for any sensors? Traps?” Wooyoung grills, tutting at the shifting expressions on the boy’s face, “Come on, Yeo- -Hui, you should know better than this.”

A puff of air escapes Yeosang’s lips as he feels around the area for anything unusual, rolling his eyes in annoyance as nothing is found. His face almost screams an ‘are you serious?’ and Wooyoung furrows his brows.

“See?”

“We don’t have time, come on!” San whines in Wooyoung’s earpiece.

Wooyoung reaches a hand into the alcove, fingers closing around stacks of notes as Yeosang reaches for the journals and documents that seem to be pushed into corners, seemingly forgotten or saved hurriedly. It seems rather odd that it should be in plain sight, but considering the amateur behaviour Yeosang has witnessed, he doesn’t question it too much.

(False, he questions it a lot, but it’s kept within his mind’s walls because creating a big deal of it wouldn’t help at all. He tells himself he’ll bring it up to Seonghwa or Hongjoong later, deciding it to be more likely the former, considering the intimidating demeanour of the latter.)

They grab onto as much as they can carry before hurrying out of the room, eyes scanning the parking lot cautiously. Broad daylight meant it would be easier to spot such suspicious activity, but the time of day also meant not many cars had been left outside, it being unusual to visit the club at such hours.

“San, have you killed the cams?”

“What do you take me for?”

“San.” He presses.

“Of course, of course, princess.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes and slides into the car as Yeosang unlocks the door, pulling it open for him.

Once the other is in the driver’s seat, he dumps his findings into the back and shoves his keys into the ignition, engine coming to life in a roar of energy. His foot pushes against the accelerator and feels the car move out of the parking spot, pulling at the wheel to make a quick exit from the lot and begin the journey back to headquarters.

They start the drive back, with Yeosang’s eyes flittering over to Wooyoung every once in a while, something the boy notices acutely.

A smile creeps up onto his lips, and Yeosang turns to face him at a red light.

“What’s up, Sang? Can’t seem to keep your eyes off of me-”

“Oh, shut up.” He grins.

“Amused, are we?”

“Just glad we’re finally going home.”

“You can say that again.” Wooyoung muses, “I miss everyone, y’know? Feels so empty without them.”

“I guess so…”

Wooyoung feels the car lurch slightly, moving forward and past the now green light.

“But I do love being with you,” He chuckles, sensing the other’s slightly sombre mood, “you’re my favourite after all.”

“What about me!”

“And you, Sannie.”

Yeosang grins and Wooyoung watches in adoration as he tries to conceal it, happy but also relieved. It sends warmth to his gut that snakes up to his heart, exciting it pleasantly.

Even when they pack their bags to leave, he can’t seem to stop bouncing in excitement. He knows a lot of explaining is to ensue once they’re back - Hongjoong and his thorough system - but he also knows he missed it regardless. He had missed Seonghwa and his worrying, Youngjo and his mushiness, Mingi and his loud attitude - everyone.

On the drive back to KQ, he feels fingers slip atop his delicately, eyes immediately shifting to glance at their owner.

Eyes remained fixed on the road, but teeth worry at increasingly red lip tissue. He allows the boy to slip his fingers into his own, squeezing at the hand gently and smiling even if has the suspicions that the boy isn’t looking.

Perhaps he enjoys this slightly clingier version of Yeosang.

They drive in comfortable silence, with heavy hearts lightening with every passing minute.

-

Feet tap gently against the floor, slightly anxious and pedantic, shifting lightly every so often to play discordant rhythms that make little sense but seem to release some sort of tension. The lift creaks with every moment, something he picks up on and scorns, the sound harsh on his already rapid heartbeat.

It screeches into its final spot, shaking into place before dinging quietly, doors opening with a silent slide.

“No one’s gonna greet us?” Wooyoung pouts, “What a shame... I expected a party at least.”

“How self-absorbed can you _get_?”

“You love it.”

Yeosang scoffs but doesn’t shove off Wooyoung as he usually does when the boy rests his weight against him, fingers interlocking with his own. The feeling of wet clothes against his skin is not a pleasant sensation but he bears it for the sake of keeping the other close.

(And Wooyoung supposes Yeosang really has been this sentimental and clingy the whole time, just a tad bit more distant. Although it certainly has something to do with how nervous he is.)

“Do we change or go to the briefing room?”

“I don’t know, do you want Seonghwa to scream at you for dirtying his floor or do you want the possibility of cake?”

“Cake!”

Yeosang smiles, tugging the boy along, “God, what kind of criminal are you, screaming over cake?”

“The kind you’re whipped on.”

He doesn’t respond, but Wooyoung catches the pink shade accenting his cheeks in a way he views to be pretty, smug smirk slipping onto his lips at the sight. At the moment, he doesn’t exactly care about the fact he’s staring and just keeps his eyes trained on the boy, unswayed by the quick glances thrown at him.

They walk through the halls until finally reaching Wooyoung’s quarters, door opening easily as he saunters in, the boy removing his shirt at once in a way that seems desperate.

Although, it does make sense. Wet silk and soaked jeans certainly do not match and are hardly befitting alone.

Yeosang turns his eyes and waits.

The rustling of clothes and movement stops soon after, prompting his gaze to shift over once more.

“What-” He clears his throat, eyes fixed, “What are you doing? Are you not getting changed?”

Wooyoung grins at him, shirt thrown somewhere as he stares onwards at the boy. It takes a moment or two but he finally does avert his eyes, moving to search for what Yeosang presumes to be dry clothes. The red on his cheeks begin to cool down whilst he recovers from being the subject of such a powerful gaze.

“You should change too.”

“You can go first it’s-”

“Yeosang, come on, I’ve seen you changing before. Nothing to hide, right?”

He shrugs, fingers slipping to the underside of his ribs upon the descent to unbuttoning his shirt, “Yeah, I- I guess so.”

“And plus, it’s not like I’m gonna do you right here,” Wooyoung chuckles, “that’s for later.”

A pillow is thrown at the boy’s face at once, leaving him a mess of giggles.

Yeosang hurries to shrug off his clothes, reaching at the stack of clean garments that the other has set out, and taking the first item his fingers latch onto: a yellow hoodie that he supposes to be a bit too big, but it’s not as if he’s complaining. It’s soft, and it’s Wooyoung’s, and he’s never going to admit it but he adores wearing the boy’s clothes - adores wearing San’s clothes too. He just doesn’t know why, or perhaps understands it differently for each of the two - but for now, he brushes off the thought and embraces the warmth it gives him, the cold of the water having reached the marrow of his bones and chilling him to his soul. If anything, the fluffy interior of the hoodie is akin to a warm hug, and he revels in it.

Judging from the lack of gasping or fussing, he assumes Wooyoung hadn’t caught a glimpse at the ugly purple tainting his ribs. Decidedly, it’s for the best, and he continues with his undressing.

Swiftly, his soaked pants are rid of, and comfortable sweats are adorned, with his eyes never straying from his own movements in fear of catching onto the gaze he knows is pinned onto him. It’s somewhat holding, keeping him from moving too much, from hiding, but it’s the same gaze he’s used to, and these thoughts are the same he’s always had.

“Are we finally done?”

“Ah, yeah.”

Wooyoung scans him and smiles gently.

“It’s okay to open up, Sang.”

“What?”

“You just look like you’re thinking a lot, and considering everything we… Just- everything, I think it’s…”

“Are you getting sentimental on me?” He frowns.

“Hey! Listen to what I’m saying, dumbass! It’s actually important for once.”

Yeosang shakes his head and smiles, arms opening up gingerly.

“Just hug me idiot, and let’s go before Seonghwa thinks we’ve died.”

“That or we’re fucking.”

“Slowly regretting my offer.”

Wooyoung launches himself into the boy’s arms, sliding his own arms around Yeosang’s waist as the boy wraps his around his neck, pulling tightly but not in a way that’s suffocating. They sway from side to side, Yeosang’s nose pushing into the other’s neck and tickling it pleasantly.

His fingers curl into the soft material hanging loosely upon the boy’s figure, grasping onto it with a tight grip.

If it were up to him, he’d stay in the older’s arms for an eternity (or just a few minutes longer), but his sense of self-preservation seems to have kicked in, and their anticipated arrival is well overdue. Thus, his arms slip away, fingers unlocking and returning to his own space. Yeosang seems to retract also, fingers patting down hardly messy hair before stowing themselves away in a pocket.

“Race you to the briefing room?”

“I’d rather not go into cardiac arrest before the day’s over, thank you.”

“How sexy, you’re completely unfit.”

“I try.”

Yeosang opens the door and escapes with a sigh and eye roll, feet padding against the floor lightly due to the lack of shoes (his having been way too soaked to be reused, and the reality of having to dirty the dry, clean socks being better than tip-toeing around on soggy soles). The sound of the door shutting and a second set of padding follows his exit, and he doesn’t even bother to check if it’s Wooyoung following as he normally would out of precaution, far too tired and slightly more trusting than usual to care.

The boy’s room being closer than most to the briefing room, it’s a short journey, and they reach the dreaded door sooner than Yeosang is mentally prepared to.

He simply stares at the cold material of the door for a moment or two, considering his options. If he were to, theoretically, run away, what repercussions would that bring? Not many, he decides, and his feet twist in their spot to leave at the idea, only to be thwarted by the loud resonating knock.

Eyes nervous, he glances at Wooyoung who presses his palm against his lower back, supporting and reassuring. He presumes his nerves are clear as day in his eyes, the quivering sensation he feels behind them reflecting in wavering pupils. He doesn’t understand where it comes from, but has an inkling of an idea that he stows away as soon as it pops up.

Footsteps sound from behind the door, and before he knows it the hinges whine almost inaudibly, and a bright smile shows itself.

If it wasn’t blinding before, the glee in the other’s face seems to increase by tenfold, capable of lighting a planet the way it shines so radiantly, showing in wide grins and creased eyes, glowing cheeks and glinting pupils.

Air is knocked out his lungs at the sudden impact against his chest, arms slung around his neck that snake around to his upper back, resting on his spine and curling into the clothing there. A chin rests on his shoulder, on the edge, having been divided equally between the two shoulders it lies on. Strands of hair tickles his skin persistently, stroking against his cheeks as he moves to reciprocate the unexpectedly vivacious embrace, his own chin resting against the other with his cheek resting against the faintly pulsating junction of the boy’s neck. His own arms cease to weakly hang at his sides and instead wrap around the other’s waist, squeezing at it as much as he believes he’s allowed, fingers tapping delicately against a lower back, the feeling of spinal discs faint under the pads of his fingers but nevertheless present.

Warmth floods into his chest at the bubbles of laughter that erupt from the two closest to him, prompting his own joyful response - perhaps a tad bit high-pitched, and in the form of a giggle, but it only sends the others laughing louder, brighter, more carefree.

“Sannie, you have no idea how much we missed you.”

“I have no idea? God, I missed you two so much I couldn’t even breathe, please don’t be so stupid ever again.”

“We’ll see how Yeosang feels about that.”

He whines, and it surprises him. “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Oh, shut up, and cuddle me.”

Yeosang can practically hear Wooyoung’s eye roll.

“Okay, drama queen.”

“Says you Wooyoung!”

“Ahem.”

The trio’s eyes are drawn to the end of the room, voices immediately evaporating into nothing at the somewhat complicated gazes directed at them. It feels akin to a movie, at least to Yeosang it does, because time seems to slow down at once, silence turning into an oddly paced thrumming in the back of his head that seemed to incessantly echo through his ears like a bee buzzing bothersomely.

Silently, a hand gestures for them to take their seats, and in a heartbeat they seem to be deattaching from one another, hurrying towards the seats in a way that is evidently feigned collection - the concealed excitement and happiness seeps through painfully well, like ink markers on thin tissue paper. Perhaps it's an odd sight for Yeosang spots carefully analysing eyes scanning them up and down as though they were foreign entities, dangerous but without the knowledge of why or how.

“Shall we begin?” Seonghwa regards them with a calculated gaze, only backing off after taking note of all three nods.

His fingers wrap delicately around the body of the pen, poising it to write as he always does, hand still and unwavering as it hovers over the parchment. It’s almost humorously familiar and endearing, especially the way the older’s eyes quickly flitter over to the half-empty contents of the paper, analytical in patient wait of information.

Part of Yeosang wonders what really goes on in the other’s head, but he decides that with all that god awful worrying it must not be a very exciting place to be in.

“As we know, Yeosang diverted from the mission plan,” Hongjoong announces abruptly, “possible endangering the whole mission. This is against our protocol-”

Like a freshly lit firework, the flames having absorbed the thin material keeping it at bay from allowing the spark to ignite what it craved to, at once, a body shoots up, fist slamming furiously against the table.

A fire burns in his eyes, unkempt and wild.

“Yeosang saved our whole mission, and you’re talking protocol? The fuck are we, some bratty police cadets?”

“If you would let me finish, Jung.” He glares sharply at the boy, prompting his immediate seating (aided by a flustered tug at his sleeve, sending his body into motion at the reminder of his position within the room).

“I’d like to thank Yeosang for his bravery, but also express…” A slither of a sigh slips from his lips, “Our concern-”

“Please don’t be so reckless again, Yeo.” Seonghwa piped up as though it were an off-hand remark, finishing off the words he seemed to have known the boy beside him to be incapable of properly delivering. His voice does not display much emotion but the way his head remains bowed rather than lifting to raise his gaze to the surrounding others shows something to be there.

They all know Hongjoong would’ve been unable to express that thought as concisely; as bluntly.

“I’ll try my best.”

Pen poised precisely, Seonghwa smiles slightly.

“Are you ready to debrief?”

-

Two separate timbres sound out of sync, tapping pitter-patters of anxious energy.

It’s somewhat amusing to him how he mirrors the worrying tendencies of the other, yet at the same time a stark reminder of his similarities, and thus a prompt to stop the nervous habit. Air leaves his lungs and escapes through his lips in a tired display, exasperation and exhaustion bleeding.

Pitter-patter perpetually.

“You know,” The sound breaks the active quiet, “I’m pretty proud of you despite everything.”

Yeosang scoffs.

“Proud of me for not dying or proud I managed to complete the mission successfully?”

The other turns to him and smiles without a worry, “Bitter, are we?”

“Suppose you could call it that…” He ponders briefly, “Bitterness, that is. But if I’m to be honest, I think I’m just tired, Seonghwa.”

“I get that.” A hand settles itself on his upper back, rubbing lightly at his shoulder blades in a way he views as comforting, “Still, you don’t need to worry so much, Sang. I can practically feel your nervousness right now.”

As though feeling his swiftly shifting mood, the hand slips from his back and returns to its owner, positioning itself respectfully with its counterpart, fingers fiddling silently.

Tapping at the floor continues from the older, heels clicking as an addition, almost as though creating a small performance, one single sigh being puffed out not moments later.

“But really, I am proud.”

“What of?”

His voice holds an inquisitive tone rather than the usual modes of snappy or nonchalant.

“I don’t need to explain.” A smirk creeps up to his lips.

At once the door begins creaking open, signalling the meeting to have finished at last.

“You already know, Sang.” He leaves off cryptically, entering the room with a cool composure as the two others exit, allowing the door to shut quietly, almost silent, and in turn joining the last inhabitant, leaving those who had been called upon to collect themselves and hurry off.

Two pairs of bright eyes shine entrancingly at him, beckoning him closer as they move further from the room they depart from, their owner’s fingers latching on with gentle abandon to his own digits, guiding. Lips purse to speak as their legs move them forwards into the building, down corridors well known. His mind reminds him of his sock-clad feet but his dominant consciousness pushes away the thought in favour of staring almost dazed at one of the eyes - fox-like, piercing eyes that he seems to feel and overwhelming set of emotions at.

Time becomes irrelevant in that instant, his fingers curling into the feeling of two hands clasping around them as he’s brought to the sudden realization that they’ve already arrived at their destination. Knob twisting, the door is pushed open and he’s hurried inside, said door slamming shut with an excited fervour.

Before he has time to even breathe, the air is abruptly knocked out his lungs from the blunt force of a body being thrown at his chest; arms wrap around his waist and squeeze tightly, prompting him to slip his own around the other’s neck, fingers dancing at the nape.

“I missed you so, so much, you don’t know.”

His eyes stay stationary out of shock that comes from a place he’s unsure of.

“I- Didn’t we hug earlier, San?” He allows his fingertips to play with the fine hairs leading from the boy’s mess of hair, pressing his cheek against the other’s neck with his chin on a strong shoulder.

“Are you saying you don’t like this?”

In the same moment he feels the boy pulling away slightly, he chokes out a “No!”, eliciting a snicker.

“That’s- That’s not what I meant, I just-”

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” San muses, nose pressing into Yeosang’s neck as he breathes out a puff of amusement, “are you nervous?”

“What are you on about-”

“Stop teasing him, San.”

The boy pulls back with a whine, pout on his lips. Yeosang ponders for a moment who he’s been left with, and why on earth he’s watching the two swap roles, with Wooyoung not being the subject of babying nor scolding for once in what had seemed like millennia.

His arms fall from the boy’s neck and are at once taken into warm hands, eyes sparkling deceivingly - or perhaps persuasively? - at him, much like a child’s dazzling orbs of innocence, light reflected brightly from them.

“San wants to ask you something.”

“This is very suspicious, why are you both acting this way?” Yeosang furrows his brows, shooting a glance at Wooyoung who only shrugs and motions in San’s direction, prompting his eyes to fix onto the boy once more.

A face of determination and excitement slowly crumbles into a bundle of nerves and uncertainty. Yeosang wonders what he’s done wrong, eyes widening at once before being shushed, his mouth not even moving to open and yet being silenced.

(He supposes the expression on his face was enough to suggest an outburst of sorts.)

“I know this is… It’s weird to ask, and you’re tired and we’re not the closest but- If it’s okay, I’d…” He sighs, “I want to have what you have with Wooyoung but with the both of you.”

“And what exactly is that?” Yeosang side-eyes Wooyoung with quivering pupils.

Said boy rolls his eyes and chuckles quietly, lightly.

“I told him, Sang. It’s okay.”

Rogue floods to his face at once, his cheeks finding themselves pressed against the boy’s shoulder in a concealed assortment of embarrassment, heat reaching his ears and lighting it with the same bright colour. His instinct to hide becomes overwhelming even though he’s sure his burning face is covered sufficiently.

“Ah, cute!”

Muffled, he bites out words, lips moving against supple skin. “Shut. Up.”

San runs a set of fingers through the boy’s hair, chewing at his lip even as he tries to distract himself from his anxiety with the feeling of soft locks.

“So…?”

Yeosang composes himself as best as he can, pushing himself away from the boy and deattaching their connected appendages, folding in on himself for comfort (as per usual, Wooyoung thinks to himself).

“I think… It’s okay- But, are you sure?” He rubs at his arms, the yellow hoodie’s fabric enveloping his palms. “I mean, after everything you heard during the past two months…”

“Why would that deter me?”

“Because!” He hisses, “I’m… Not perfect. You heard what I did to Wooyoung, and I know he tolerates it but can you? Will you stop lov- Will you stop caring? Will you-”

“I haven’t so far and I don’t plan to, Yeo. Just let me in.”

He hates that San is the voice of reason whilst he frets, but nevertheless his resolve collapses. A small smile pulls at his lips and he turns his head to Wooyoung’s direction to hide it. Noisily clearing his throat, he pins his eyes to the floor and collects himself promptly.

His head nods slowly, almost hesitating, “If you insist, I guess it’s okay.”

Arms gather him close again, and he has a half mind to complain about the amount of skinship from the day, hands almost reluctantly reaching to wrap around the neck of the other (he refuses to accept the fact he may enjoy this), with lips ghosting over his forehead for a moment before pressing lightly with a small, hardly noticeable sound. He allows the smile this time, keeping his face away from view (okay, maybe he really does enjoy it, irrefutably).

Yet another press of soft lips is applied to the crown of his head and he finds it to be warmer than anticipated.

“Get a room already!”

“Woo!”

-

Summer’s ferocity is coming to an end, welcoming a cooler breeze that slowly adjusts to the lukewarm temperature that seems appropriate for the season of autumn. There aren’t any leaves swirling around in small eddies, but that’s partially due to the sparsity of trees within the urban area, the closest greenery being multiple blocks down: a park, with a small area for the entertainment of children, and a grassy space littered with benches for those walking dogs or simply ambling through.

Nevertheless, the climate is one of an end-summer, beginning-autumn period, with the air growing less humid with every passing day, slowly dropping in temperature with it. More often than not, the day ends earlier than usual, the sky growing prettily dark and filling with darkish blue, perhaps black, hues that paint an endless picture, travelling miles either and every way.

As always, the star hide childishly, either behind the clouds that grow increasingly in number the more the days drag on, or simply concealed beneath the blinding city lights that smother them, unwilling to sparkle or dazzle as they do elsewhere; it’s almost as though they shun the everlasting light, a cruel mechanism of keeping their glorified light at bay.

It feels as though time had been snatched from him like an abruptly tugged tablecloth, the precious items laid atop it being thrown about and shattered, much like his own emotions in a way he found difficulty in explaining, even to himself.

Days of waiting for the light pattering sounding from behind him and increasing in sound had led to a sombre mood and a feeling of dejection. It had been only one week ago that he had worked himself up at the sudden outbreak of seasonal rain, the sound akin to what he craved and thus gaining excitement for nothing; he had been heartbroken, although perhaps that word was a tad bit extreme. Something like emptiness coated his throat, and it pained him with the heavy weight it brought. Disjointed: it felt like the emotions at work inside him had become disconnected and muddled up in a difficultly entangled order, waiting to be undone and put together appropriately again, and part of him waited for another to do it for him. Pathetic, he would mutter under his breath at the idea, before shaking a head despondently, eyes tracing the rushing cars beneath his swaying feet, waiting for a change - a sudden change - to uncover the blanket thrown atop him, to lift the oddly dense fog blinding his vision and in turn his ambitions, muting his emotions.

If he dared, he would call it being forlorn; missing the piece he didn’t know he had needed. Pitiful, he would huff, if only he allowed the ideas to rush through his mind in the first place.

At some point, he supposed he didn’t bother to wait for the footsteps - the pitter-patter - he craved. Assumed it would come back, but found no reason to wait so ardently, as if anxious jittering and worried pacing would rush the process of arrival and cause it to come quicker than usual. Worrying was more of Seonghwa’s thing, and if anything, he disliked the idea of being such a fussy person as the boy.

During the day he would take on more jobs than usual, arriving later to the rooftop than usual and spending whatever time had been left to throw his head back and gaze at an empty sky, desperately trying to track the stars he couldn’t see, trying to find something he knew to be there but at the same time knew he would be unable to locate.

It became more than usual to be busy, sparing a small portion of his time to meet with the top of the building in a solemn meeting - a brief confrontation of emotions that no matter how much he argued, would not open up before him; would not dare to untangle.

So when the pitter-patter returned, it sent a wave of energy, a jolt of electricity, a spark of lighting through his body, lighting a match previously thought to be damp and useless, newly found to be full of liveliness and vivaciousness. He could not dare to look, felt something like tightening telephone wires pulling him back and keeping him in place, eyes pinning to something in the night sky he could not see, glazing over travelling clouds.

Closer and closer the footsteps rained before stopping beside him, a body lowering with legs pulling into a crossed formation - childlike, and most definitely familiar. In his peripheral he could spot the vibrant yellow, slightly dulled by the darker luminescence atop the building but nevertheless eye-catching and refreshing, draping over the curves of appendages in a heavy manner. He supposed it to be warm on the other, small smile slipping on his lips that he scolded internally, wishing away and being granted the action immediately.

“You’re back, finally.”

A coy giggle, bubbly and surprisingly bright.

“I promised, didn’t I?”

He turns his head and meets eyes with the other, finding them to shine brightly, just as their laughter had. It feels as though a glow comes from their skin, illuminating the immediate area around them, and casting a mild warmth, much like a duller sun on a colder summer’s day - appropriate for the time of the year, he muses.

“Have you been okay?”

“I’ve been better.”

A bright smile plays at his lips, and the other reciprocates, lashes fluttering and filtering the pure gold that shines from his glinting pupils.

“I’m glad, Yeo.”

The other - Yeosang - turns his head away with a smile still at his lips. His gaze fixes on the city below, feet slipping out of their formation and throwing themselves off of the ledge of the building, swaying gently and carefree. Palms slide backwards to allow him to lean slightly, fingers drumming casually upon the cement of the building, eliciting no sounds but from what the boy can assume, playing gentle vibrations in a rhythm that soothes or lightens the other, for his head bounces gleefully as though endlessly bewitched by the emotion of joy.

His fingers don’t seem to crave lingering around the other’s wrists, instead keeping a further distance: trusting.

If the gleam in the boy’s eyes is anything to go by, he doesn’t need to worry so much anymore - at least, not for now.

He props himself up as the other has, watching Yeosang smile prettily at the clear night, admiring how his eyes scan over the nothingness with avidity and zeal.

“Thank you, Jongho.”

Clearly, his voice cuts through: crisp, fresh.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for being by my side, even now.” He rolls his pupils to the side of his eye, glint ever so present, “I treasure our time together - I feel like I can breathe.”

His laughter comes out airy, somewhat heavy and leaden with an emotion he doesn’t attempt getting into, appreciating it at its face value without much suspicious or deliberation.

With smiles, he lets himself dissipate into gentle chatter and light banter with the boy he watches he night sky with, muscles relaxing and his mind simmering down into a calmer state, a flow of happiness rushing through him. He feels younger, perhaps closer to his real age than he has ever felt before, as if the world has let him take a break from everything. He lets himself pout and whine as a boy his age would, little chuckles escaping his lips in bouts of merriment, leaning back on his supporting arms with a light spring.

The other’s eyes squint with laughter, lips tugged in what grows to be aching happiness, but it seems as though they don’t care. Jongho admires him and relishes in newfound freedom.

Yeosang breathes in through relieved lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanku for reading!!  
twit = @kkochiya  
stan ateez


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